


Three Cheers For Tragic Ends

by deadfrnk (SuckMyKilljoy)



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Frerard, Ghost!Frank, M/M, ghost au, periodfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuckMyKilljoy/pseuds/deadfrnk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>White Oak– population 200 and a century-old ghost... and Gerard is moving there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

August 23rd, 1897

 

The dusk was warm with mid-autumn wind, and with it came the laughter of the two boys, heavy and intoxicated as they danced through the graveyard as if it was their own. They smiled to each other as they stumbled over rocks, and shivered as the wind ran a symphony through the trees, sending the older boy’s hair into whipped curls and the younger boy’s hat near flying.

The older of the two teens laughed gaily, and he gripped the younger’s arm, dancing him past headstones and tarnished iron gates, up to the paint-chipped white wall of the church, which loomed higher than the oldest tree in White Oak Grove.

He pushed the younger boy against the white church side, and he leaned down and pressed his lips slowly to the other’s; and he giggled against his lips, “Gabie… you look absolutely stunning…” and he ran a hand through the younger boy’s hair, knocking his hat off in the process.

“Frank!” the boy whined, and bent down to pick up his hat. He dusted from it a few specks of dust and a strand or two of grass, before placing it atop the older boy’s head. “Oh, see… now you look beautiful,” and he kissed Frank’s lips. “The wonders this hat does…”

Frank leaned in again, and he whispered, “So modest,” before capturing the younger boy’s parted lips in a heated kiss. His fingers trailed nimbly up Gabe’s sides, and the younger boy giggled, and pulled away, backing up into the wall.

“Frank, darling,” he chuckled, cheeks rouged with the autumn heat, flushed with excitement. But the older boy’s hands didn’t cease, and soon the younger teen was doubled over with laugher, and he threw his head back and parted his lips, and pushed at Frank and he gasped, “I plead mercy, hail Mary.”

Frank smirked, and his eyes hazed over as he watched the younger teen squirm underneath him; and he trailed one hand up Gabe's white dress shirt, popping open the buttons with nimble fingers. He moved his mouth down to the younger's neck, kissing along the skin as it was revealed to him.

Gabe moaned lightly underneath him and reached his hands up to grip into Frank's brown curls, pulling the older boy's mouth away from his collarbone and to his own pouted, pastel lips. Frank smirked into the kiss, and his hands shifted; he gripped the younger boy's hips and brought them against his own, canting upward slightly, and Gabe giggled nervously into his mouth, one hand slipping up the older boy's shirt.

“You are really,” Gabe muttered into Frank’s mouth, his lips parted wide against the older teen’s, “really perfect. Perfect and– oh!– dirty,” and he giggled again. The corner of Frank’s mouth quirked up and he squeezed Gabe’s hips, before letting his hands slip down ever so much, so the tips of his fingers brushed just barely underneath the waistband of Gabe’s pants.

He pulled away, and returned his mouth to Gabe’s neck, and he muttered, “I can be.” And then he laughed, “You’re one to talk, Gabriel.”

“Ooh, you shouldn’t call me that when you’ve got me pressed up against a church, legs spread. I’m most certainly no angel now,” the younger boy panted, and Frank laughed. 

“See? You’re as clean as the mind of a teenage cherry,” he chuckled, and nipped at Gabe’s collarbone, milking a moan from his throat.

“They’ll find us,” he breathed, and he didn’t sound worried. Frank wasn’t worried; his skin was on fire everywhere he and Gabe touched, and the younger boy’s hips rutting up to his own every so now and again did wonders to blow his mind from sensibility.

“Don’t worry,” Frank said, despite the younger boy’s attitude. “Let them.” And Gabe snickered lightly in response, until Frank had him pinned against the church again, under the older boy’s scarred and inked-up arms.

And Frank blinked, because it took merely seconds for Gabe’s expression to turn from lust to terror, and the older boy could barely get out a, “What ever is the matter?” before he heard a loud, booming voice from behind him, one that he would recognize anywhere.

It was Pastor Harmse, and as Frank turned around he noticed the older man pointing directly at him, and the word that barely reached his ears hung heavy in the air, in a disgusted, authoritative tone.

“Devil!"


	2. Chapter One

August 2nd, 1997

 

“Grandmamma, we’re here!” And the younger boy pushed past the one three years his senior, and shoved through the doorway and into the woman’s waiting arms. She wrapped them tight around the lanky boy before her, she said, “Oh, Michael, look how much you’ve grown.”

“I’m taller than everyone now,” the boy chirped, and he pulled away from the woman’s embrace. “Taller than Gee, too. It finally happened!”

The woman looked over and around the boy’s shoulder, to the older one who stood in the doorway, buried under a buck load of bags and sighing. “Hello, Elena,” he moaned, and the woman fretted towards him, pushing the younger boy out of the way in her haste.

“Gerard, dear, is it really you?” And the bags shifted, signaling that the boy holding them was nodding. “Oh, it’s so good to see you both, and I’m so glad you’re visiting!”

“You shouldn’t be up, Grandma,” he muttered, and shifted the bags in the direction of the younger boy. “Mikey, assistance, you dick.”

Mikey pouted. “Aw, but they’re heavy, man!” and the older boy grumbled, before shoving the load of bags into his brother’s arms.

“Deal with it,” he said, and turned to embrace his grandmother in a hug. “I’ve missed you,” he muttered into her blonde curls, and she squeezed him back, smiling.

“I’ve missed you too, il mio piccolo artista,” she grinned, and her Italian accent was heavy in her words. Gerard smiled– he loved the way his grandmother could sound so Jersey sometimes, yet at others her true roots showed through in her words.

“Aw, why don’t I have an exciting pet name?” Mikey moaned, and he shifted the myriad of bags to the floor. Gerard ran a hand up and through his brother’s hair, laughing.

“You can be muerda muto,” he laughed, and Elena smacked at his arm.

“Don’t be mean, Bambino,” she muttered, but he could tell she was holding back a smile as well. Mikey pouted.

“You guys are butts. I miss Ray, man, and Bob. They never cavorted against me in a language I can’t speak,” he whined.

“You can too,” Gerard spat back. “You can count in Italian, and you know– what, pasta? Pasta primavera, and tortellini, and canoli…” and the older boy laughed.

“You’re an ass,” Mikey grumbled, and said under his breath, “Vaffanculo.”

“Michael James Way, you take that back right now!” Elena commanded, at about the same time Gerard said, “You would.”

“Now listen here,” the old woman muttered. “I didn’t invite you over to cuss at each other now, did I?”

Gerard smiled, sheepishly. “To be fair, Grandmamma, you didn’t invite us at all. Momma kinda forced us…” and the older boy regretted his words immediately, as the old woman gasped and smacked him upside the head.

“Villano!” she screeched. “Maybe I don’t want you hear at all, eh? Maybe you can just go home; leave an old woman to hobble in peace…” But she was smiling again.

“You wouldn’t send us back, not after that drive, you wouldn’t.” And the older boy leaned over to the woman’s ear, and he whispered, “Maybe Mikey. Who needs ‘im?”

“I heard that, stupido,” he cried, and punched his older brother in the arm. Gerard laughed, and stuck his tongue out at Mikey.

“Care to take those bags to my room for me, Love?” he purred, and Mikey growled at him.

“In your dreams, fatass.”

“Michael!” Elena gave the younger boy a warning glare.

“Fine, gosh!” and he muttered under his breath as he heaved the bags back up into his arms, “Fucking woman in cahoots with him, I swear to God.”

“That’s like, a lot of Hail Maries!” Gerard called from behind his brother. He received a middle finger in response.

 

“So, dear, how’ve you been?” and the old woman walked the artist to her living room, where she sat him down, fretted with her heavy skirt, and said, “Coffee, dear?”

And Gerard looked at her sadly, and he said, “You don’t need to pretend to be fine, Grandma. Not around me,” and the old woman sighed in relief, and she sat down on the couch and rubbed at her face.

“How bad are they saying it is?” he asked, cautiously putting a hand on Elena’s shoulder. She shrugged, and shook her head.

“They don’t know… oh, Bambino, they think it’s pneumonia, and that sounds like a chance… By god, it’s not cancer, but you know a vecchia like me, I don’t get over things like I used to…” and she sighed again, and Gerard’s shoulders slumped.

He leaned over and embraced the old woman, and when they pulled away, she was smiling weakly. He said, “We’ll get through this, Nonna.”

She nodded. “Just… don’t tell Michael, just yet, please. He’s just so happy and full of life, I don’t want my illness dragging him down.”

“Yeah,” and Gerard rubbed Elena’s shoulder. “I won’t, promise.”

 

“Okay, shitter, I’ve gotten your bags dumped, and my bags dumped. Time for you to slave over little old me,” Mikey sang as he trumped down the stairs.

Gerard blinked at him. “Did you put my bags in the window room?” His brother made a noise of agreement. “The one on the side of the house? The large one, not for storage?”

“I hate you,” Mikey said, and turned on the last step to re-ascend the stairs.

Gerard turned to Elena, and took the old woman’s hand. “I want you to get comfortable,” he said to her, as he noticed Mikey had gone out of earshot. “You’ll only get worse if you fret about like such.”

Elena nodded. “You’ve always been so good to me,” she smiled.

“Do you need anything? A blanket, maybe, Grandmamma, or some tea?”

“Bourbon,” she stated, straight-faced, and Gerard almost choked out a, “What?”

Almost, because she didn’t give him a chance. “Ah, I’m only joking, Bambino. I don’t drink anymore, not like in the old days. So yes, please. I keep tea in the cabinet above–”

“The stove, I know. I remember.” And Gerard grinned, and hustled himself into the kitchen. “What kind, Nonna?” he called when the cabinet was open, and he stared from under stringy black hair at the several kinds of tea before him.

“Oh, just something simple, Chamomile…” and she waved her hand in the older boy’s direction. 

“’Course, Grandmamma,” he said, and smiled back at her as he took out the tea from the cabinet.

 

Mikey came back down as Gerard was getting out the kettle, and he ran up to his brother and asked, “Are you doing that for Nonna?” and Gerard nodded, and Mikey whined and pushed at Gerard’s hand and said, “No, stupido, I wanna do it!”

Gerard set the kettle down and blinked at Mikey. “Kissass,” he stated, unfazed. Mikey glared.

“I’m just trying to help,” he whined, and Gerard only muttered again, “Kissass,” under his breath, and he smiled to himself as he handed off the kettle to Mikey.

“Okay, piccolo,” he smiled, and ruffled at Mikey’s hair. “You’re being very sweet, taking care of grandma and little old me,” and he sniggered.

“Shut up,” Mikey blushed, and then, “Oh, Gee? You wanted those bags in the closet, right?”

“No, I asked you to leave them out, but…” and Gerard trailed off. Mikey’s shoulders sank, and he moved to hand the kettle back to Gerard.

“I’ll go get them, and move them–” he started, but Gerard cut him off.

“Stop it, you’ll worry yourself to a conniption. We’re off the road, kiddo. You can calm down– sit down with Nonna and I’ll make the tea, and mochas for you and me, okay?” But Mikey shook his head.

“No, I wanna, Gee. I’ll feel useless–”

“Mikes,” Gerard sighed; but he knew there was no argument here. When Mikey got into one of his weird moods, you couldn’t get him out no matter what you tried. “Okay,” he sighed, and smiled. “Okay, piccolo.” And he walked back into the living room, and sat down with Elena once again.

 

“So, Grandmamma?” and the old woman looked over to Mikey, and she smiled.

“Yes, piccolo?”

“Ah, um…” and he trailed off. “Oh, yeah!” And as he remembered, his face lit up. “Do you still have eh, piccolo pipistrello, from last visit?” Elena nodded, and moved to get up. 

“It’s on the little vanity, in my room… oh, Bambino, dear? Can you go get it please, for me?” and Gerard smiled at the old woman, and nodded.

“Of course, Nonna,” he smiled, and moved to get up off the couch. He could sense that Mikey was about to get up, to plead to do it himself, but Gerard ruffled his brother’s hair as he walked by, to signal to him that all was okay. “I’ll be right back.”

Gerard made his way up the stairs, reveling in the creaks the old wood gave. Ah, just like his childhood. He trailed his hand up the stair railing, fitting his short nails into the divots in the old wood. Sometime it amazed Gerard how this house was still standing, in such a good condition, being one of the oldest houses in White Oak.

He hopped up the last few stairs and turned down the hall, and he trailed his fingers against the slightly chipping paint off the wood walls. It was when he was nearly at the doorway to Elena’s room when he heard it– the quiet, but definitely present, sound of footsteps in the attic.

Gerard blinked, and he shook his head. Just like what Elena said, he thought, and walked into her room, and retrieved the crudely made stuffed bat from her dresser top. Elena always said old houses like this creaked about.

No, Gerard wasn’t going crazy. It was echoes, the footsteps were most definitely echoes, and everything was fine. Still, he shivered as he stood before the staircase, for something seemed almost slightly off.

 

He returned to the living room and plopped down on the couch, next to his brother, and handed him the little bat. “Ah, what did you name him again?” he heard his grandmother ask Mikey.

“Oh, what did I name him, Gee?” Mikey asked, looking up from the bat to his older brother. Gerard blinked, and he tried to remember back to when Mikey was thirteen and thrilled that he’d sewn something– Gerard had laughed at him for days on end, and that had been especially fueled by the name he’d given the poor thing.

“Oh, jeez, I don’t remember,” and he ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, it was something like…” and he trailed off, and snapped his fingers, hoping it would trigger his memory. “Ah! It was Jell-O.” And Gerard snorted, loud, “Fucking– jell-o!” which received a slap from his grandmother.

“Don’t cuss at your fratello, dear. I think Jell-O is a perfectly nice name.” And she smiled at Mikey, who beamed and then stuck his tongue out at Gerard.

“Ha-ha, stupido. Grandmamma thinks I’m cool.”

“Yeah, Grandmamma thinks you’re cool. Ooh, big deal. Nonnas think every one of their nipoti are cool, you dork,” Gerard rebounded. Mikey just stuck his tongue out at him, again.

“Whatever, Gerard. You’re jealous.”

Gerard only snorted. “Not in the slightest, piccolo.”

 

When Gerard entered his room for the first time since they’d arrived, he wasn’t surprised to see that the bags had been removed from the closet, and set in the middle of the room. He sighed, and shook his head, because he really did want Mikey to stop fussing about; he was only going to get sick like Elena and, no matter how much the older boy knew he wanted to help, he’d rather not have to take care of two sick people.

He walked to the center of the room and began taking things from the bags –clothes from a few, pencils and paper from another– and as he began putting them away, a strange sense washed over him.

The room smelled sweet of vanilla; and now, this would have never bothered Gerard at all if it hadn’t been that he remembered, exactly from his childhood, that this room in particular always smelled heavy of dust and age.

It wasn’t that Gerard minded the smell; it was actually mildly pleasant– it just struck him as odd, because he knew that Elena, even if she had come into his room prior to his visit, for maintenance and such, wouldn’t have sprayed anything of a vanilla scent, for she didn’t like it.

But the older boy brushed it off, and continued to put clothes in the vanity and pens in the desk by the window. He almost thought he saw something at one point, out the corner of his eye a dark shadow, but he pushed that thought away as well; because ever since he was little, he had an active imagination, and it never meant a thing. He’d probably just draw about it later, he thought, and rid himself of the slightly sinking feeling he knew he had no reason to possess.

 

“Gerard, I hope you’re not mad, but I moved the bags out–”

“Yeah, piccolo, I noticed.” Gerard reached up and ruffled a hand through his brother’s choppy, bleached hair, and he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Mikes?” he asked, sighing and looking up at his brother.

“Yeah?”

“How much of this house do you remember... it’s been years, right?” And the younger boy nodded, and sat down next to the older one.

“Yeah, I was thirteen, so you were… what, sixteen? That’s four years, yup. Been a long time.” And he nodded to himself, and smoothed a hand over the gray comforter.

“Well, piccolo, do you remember anything weird that used to happen?”

Mikey snorted. “I remember that weird stuff used to happen to you,” he laughed, “and Nonna always called you on it, saying, “Bambino, don’t make insane of yourself at such a young age!”” He looked up at Gerard, and gave a lopsided smile. “I’m not gonna lie– I always kinda believed you. But stuff like that, Gee? It doesn’t happen in real life. You’re twenty now, you gotta know that?” And he moved to get up off the bed.

Gerard sighed, and he nodded. See, Mikey was right. It was all in his head– which wasn’t the most reassuring thing to know, thank you very much, but he would take it. “I guess you’re right. Oh, but one more thing?”

Mikey turned around, and quirked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Well, when you came in here, did you spray some sort of cleaner, or perfume?”

Mikey blinked at him. “What– no, Gee, sorry. Maybe it was Grandmamma?”

“Yeah, I thought that too,” the older boy trailed off. “Except, you know Nonna doesn’t like vanilla…”

“It doesn’t smell like vanilla in here, Gee,” Mikey said, and he furrowed his brows. “Wow, you’re such a fucking nutcase. Are you okay?” There was humor in his voice, but Gerard only shrugged in response, face stoic.

“I don’t know,” and then he forced a laugh, and hoped Mikey wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m fucking loony.” He gave his brother one of his signature all-teeth grins, and then shoved at the younger boy. “Okay, out piccolo. I still have unpacking to do.”

And Mikey left, but not before muttering, “Fucking weird, Gee.”

Gerard sighed. He was being weird; he knew his brother was right, and there was no vanilla smell or shadows out the corner of his eye, and the footsteps he’d heard earlier were merely mice, or something that his overactive imagination had expanded into a threat.

Still, he couldn’t help feel a chill run up him– so he busied himself with unpacking, hoping to be done all the sooner so he could talk to Elena once more; and stop worrying so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation list for half the weird shit I make them say in Italian (courtesy of Google translator):
> 
> il mil piccolo artista – my little artist  
> bambino – child  
> muerda muto – dumb shit  
> vaffanculo – fuck you  
> villano – rude  
> vecchia – old woman  
> nonna – grandma  
> pipistrello – bat  
> fratello – brother  
> nipoti – grandchildren


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so terribly sorry this too so long... but my computer was broken, and I only got it fixed yesterday. I promise it won't be this long for anything else. Enjoy! xokilljoy

August 4th, 1997

 

“Oh, Jesus it smells like pasta in here. Ave Maria,” and the younger boy set his hand down on the table, feigning a bout of faint. “Nonna, what in Lord’s name– wait, Gerard?” The younger boy looked up in shock, and he bustled to his brother’s side, staring at him intently as he cooked.

“Fratello, can you not? You’re getting in the way, and by God if you’re actually seeking to help standing there, then you can at least pass me the…” and Gerard trailed off, and made a vague gesture to one corner of the room.

“Pesto?” Mikey supplied. The older boy grunted. “Ah, oregano? More pasta?”

“Oh, for Mary’s sake, no!” and Gerard turned around, and shoved his sleeves farther up his elbows, and said, “Man the pot, I’ll fucking find it myself, inutile.”

“Vaffanculo!” the younger boy retorted.

“You would,” Gerard grunted, and he searched frantically through the cupboard over the oven. “Oh, fuck me.”

“Really? I just offered, you weren’t very willing–” but the blonde boy was cut off by a stern glare from his brother. “Alright, Gee, you know I could be of more use if you’d actually tell me what you were looking for–”

“Parmesan!” and Gerard hit his palm against his forehead, and let out a loud groan. “Duh!”

“In the fridge?” Mikey supplied, but he wasn’t sure if his brother heard him over the fussing about and all the Italian curses he was giving out. “Gerard, calm down.”

“Piccolo, shut up,” the older boy retorted. “I’m calm. I swear; I’m calm. I just need to finish this dinner before Nonna gets back from her friend’s house, because I told her I’d cook dinner tonight and she wouldn’t have to fret over it, and oh God, lo vado pazza…”

“Gee?” Mikey asked, when his brother had seemingly stopped bustling about enough to hear a full question. “Do we have enough forks, and stuff? Last night we ran out… oh, I think Nonna keeps the extra in the attic.”

“Oh, Jesus, I don’t know.” And the older boy stopped where he stood, and let his elbows fall on the table, and ran a hand through his black hair and sighed, “I need a break from life.”

“Don’t say that, non è vero. Just– look, fratello, I’ll stay here and finish up this, and you can go get the silverware and everything will be fine. Grandmamma isn’t going to bite our heads off if this isn’t done before she gets back dalla casa del sua amica.”

“Okay,” the older boy sighed, and then, “You’re right. Okay.” He pushed himself up from the counter and began to exit the kitchen, but not before stopping to give Mikey a hug. “Essere persa senza di te, I swear to God.”

“That’s like, a lot of Hail Maries,” Mikey joked, and he squeezed Gerard’s arm reassuringly. “Go. Frolic in the attic with your kind, whatever weird close-space dwelling creatures may be up there.”

“Stupido,” the older boy laughed, and stuck his tongue out, before leaving the kitchen and ascending the stairs.

 

Gerard did not enjoy heavy lifting, and he sighed dramatically as he moved box by box out of the way to access the attic trapdoor. “I swear,” he muttered to himself. “I swear, she has an attic, why the Hell doesn’t she use it?” and he kicked a nearby box, wincing when something in it shattered. “Oh, Jesus.”

He sidestepped around the myriad of cardboard, and pulled the drawstring of the trapdoor, jumping back when the ladder came slamming down onto the already-seen-much-better-days hardwood floor.

“Fratello?” he heard Mikey call, and once he’d collected his frantic heart to a normal beat, he responded, “S’all good!”

He heard Mikey mumble back something that sounded particularly like, “Give me a heart attack, I swear to God,” and he rolled his eyes at no one, and gripped onto the edge of the ladder, and started his ascend into the attic.

The artist popped his head through the attic trapdoor, and looked around; and all he saw were boxes. “Great,” he muttered, dragging out the vowels. He lifted himself into the attic completely, and once he had, looked down at the trapdoor hole in disdain, and prayed to Mary and whoever else that he wouldn’t step in it and break his neck and die, which he could easily see himself doing. He kicked around a few more boxes, bending down now and again and checking the words sharpie-d on the sides, but none of them yet said silverware, or cutlery, or knives, or anything useful. So he raised his head to look around more, to see if any of the boxes in the rafters were the one that he needed; and that’s when the boy caught his eye.

He was sitting on the window ledge and looking out into the garden, lost in thought. He had on a plain white shirt, and the sleeves had been pushed up to his elbows, revealing foreign markings in ink across tan skin. His pants were simple brown slacks and he wore simple black boots, of which one the laces had come undone upon. His hair was loose in his face– mild brown curls that danced above shimmering hazel eyes; and a Lucky Strike cigarette hung from his pouted lips, the logo burned half off so that Gerard wouldn’t have even ever noticed it if it weren’t for his artist’s eye for detail.

He stopped; and he blinked a few times, because Lord knew that he’d only been going crazy a few minutes ago– but when the boy didn’t disappear, he asked aloud, “Who are you?”

The boy looked up suddenly from the window, hazel eyes wide as he took in Gerard’s presence. “Oh?”

Now the boy was facing Gerard somewhat more, and the artist took this time to take in his features. He looked not much older than fifteen, with a glimpse of something childlike in his eyes; he had a slightly pointed nose with a single pock-mark accented across the bridge, and freckles. His cheeks were full, and lightly blushed; his pastel lips were parted ever so little around the Lucky Strike. He arched a thin, neat eyebrow at Gerard’s question and coughed slightly, as if to clear his voice.

It was deep when he spoke, rough of little use and much too mature for a boy of fifteen, and he mumbled around his cigarette, “Pardon me?”

“Who are you– what… in my grandma’s attic?” Gerard tripped over his words, his voice held back at fault of his confusion. The boy blinked– nice, and long, and slow; and his dark eyelashes brushed the pale of his cheeks. Suddenly, as if realizing himself, he swung one leg down off the windowsill and turned to now be facing the noirette completely.

“Pardon me,” he said again, and it wasn’t a question this time. He gestured vaguely to the window, then himself, and Gerard, “I’m most terribly sorry.”

Gerard’s mouth opened in confusion, just barely as if he was going to begin to speak, but he didn’t. He closed his lips and furrowed his brow a bit. The boy faltered- and his shoulders slumped in exasperation.

“Oh, gosh,” he said. “I’m truly sorry to be hiding covert in your Nonna’s attic, but I– I….” the boy trailed off, shutting his mouth and blushing under Gerard’s watch.

“Why are you in here?” Gerard asked, his voice a whisper lost in confusion. The boy sighed again.

“I’m hiding. I was running.”

“In the attic?” Gerard appalled, and the boy shut his mouth tight and glared in an embarrassed outrage.

“Most certainly not,” and he began to flail his hand again, exaggerated-like in the direction of the window. “Out there.”

“Why?”

“I was running from them, they– oh, Maria, they were trying– are tr– I mean– augh. I cannot let them find me,” the boy finally said; and he slumped down again, dropping his hand from gesturing to the window to the thigh of his slacks, where he brushed off debris that had fallen from his cigarette in his haste. “Terribly sorry,” he said again, and then, “but I fear I cannot leave yet.”

The artist didn’t say anything at first– he didn’t know what to say, although if the boy meant what he thought, he could relate to being bullied; and he’d have to admit that he pitied the kid, even if he didn’t actually yet understand how the boy had gotten in the attic in the first place. Whatever, he wasn’t trying to harm Gerard –as far as the noirette knew; because that would be just his luck, wouldn’t it, stumbling across a lay-in-wait serial killer in his grandmother’s attic– so he took a step towards the boy, ever so much, moving to sit next to him.

The boy flinched away, and Gerard held a hand out, but continued to move next to him. “Relax, dude. M’not gonna hurt you.” And he sat down next to the boy, who dropped both his legs down in haste to make room.

“So who are you?” the boy asked, wide-eyed and watching the artist intently. His lips popped open around the Lucky Strike, which he nimbly slipped away with calloused fingers. Gerard laughed at his childlike curiosity, and he rested his head back against the window pane.

“I asked you first,” he responded. “Plus, I live here. You’re the stranger in my house, I think I should know your name first?”

The boy opened his mouth, almost to seemingly protest, before steeling himself; and he thrust a hand out to the noirette, and simply said, “Frank.”

Gerard let his hand meet the boy’s in a light slap, and he said, “Well. I’m Gerard.”

Frank stared down at his hand in confusion, neat eyebrows furrowed, and he rubbed it lightly on the chest of his white button-up before saying, “That’s nice. That’s a nice name. I’ve never met any Gerards.”

Gerard like how his voice sounded in the other boy’s slightly nasally tone. He smiled coyly, and he shrugged. “I’ve never met any Franks, so…”

“Well. I’ve never seen you around?” The boy slumped himself against the wall of the window seat, took a puff off his cigarette, and said, “I know; I’da recognized a face as drop-dead darling as that had I ever seen one.” He smirked around the Lucky Strike when the artist blushed, and brought a sleeve up to hide his face.

“Not true,” he mumbled into his sweatshirt sleeve, and Frank said, “Yessir.” And he leaned in close to Gerard and pulled his hand down, and said, “Lemme see that pretty face. Nah, nope. Never seen you before a day in my–” He cut himself off before he could finish, looking almost miserable to continue before his attitude changed split-second, and his hazel eyes got all hazy and he said, “You’ve got a crooked mouth. Hah.”

He sat back again, and he put his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe– and Gerard looked at the wasted cigarette in disdain, and Frank laughed. “You smoke?”

“Oh, yes,” Gerard said, longingly. Frank laughed; well, it was more like a giggle– light and full of life and air, like he’d never experienced a day of pain. Gerard was surprised, because the boy’s eyes said differently. But he didn’t say anything.

“So you live here with your Nonna?”

“And my baby fratello Mikey, yes.”

“How old is he?” Frank asked; and the haze was gone from his eyes, replaced with interest and Gerard couldn’t tell if it was feigned or not.

“Almost seventeen,” the artist sighed. “He’s graduating this– well, I mean he’s– this is his senior year.”

“So, not much of a baby? You look proud. I can tell in your eyes; cos you smile when you talk about him. Most people don’t do that, not most I’ve known. Most people think, well…” and he sighed again, that sad, far-away sigh, “that family is a hassle.”

“No, never,” Gerard said, voice shocked. “I love him, he’s like my child. I mean, I practically raised him…”

“So, how old are you then?” Frank asked; and he leaned forward again in curiosity.

“Twenty. And you?”

“Oh, I have seen nineteen years of life,” Frank breathed. He leaned closer to the older boy, eyes distracted, and he smiled. “Why you got that crooked mouth, anyway?”

Gerard blushed again, and looked down. “I dunno, too much smokin’ or something, talkin’ out the side of my mouth and such…” and oh, Frank’s face was .2 inches away from his own, and there was that same, lost, hazy look in his eyes, and–

A crash, followed by a thump, and a, “Gerard! Dammit, you’ve been up there so long–”

Gerard jumped away from Frank and his attention diverted to the attic trapdoor, and he watched as the top half of his brother popped up out of it, and he looked annoyed. “What the Hell, Gee? I asked you for the silverware, not the damn slip.”

“Sorry!” the older boy said, exasperated. “Sheesh, I was only talking to Frank–” But his gesture was to empty space, and when he turned to look at the younger boy, he was gone. Sot a trace was left of him, nothing but a few stray ash that rest where he’d sat.

Mikey’s eyes narrowed. “Stupido, pazzezco fratello…” and he sighed, “Well, I’m glad you made an imaginary friend, but we kinda need your mental state to be, you know, here?”

Gerard blurted, “Well, I swear he was there!” but Mikey had already disappeared back through the trapdoor, and he called out, “Sure he was,” before leaving his brother in silence.

The artist was lost. He looked around the attic and, sure enough, there was no Frank or trace of him. There wasn’t boxes moved, the window wasn’t cracked open, and not ever a speck of dust looked as if it had been displaced. The only thing the noirette noticed slightly off was the faint smell of vanilla that hung in the air– and so he assumed to himself he had indeed imagined the boy with the pretty hazel eyes and funny words; and so he let himself down from the attic, having completely forgotten about the silverware.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Less of a wait this time.  
> God, and happy ten years of Three Cheers, guys.  
> xokilljoy

August 7th, 1997

 

“Silverware, again?”

“Ah, fuck!” The artist jumped roughly five inches up off the old, mottled wood of the attic floor and he clutched at his heart frantically, turning to the perpetrator of his untimely near-death. “Jesus!” he said again, aloud, still unaware of who the perpetrator actually was.

Until the voice sounded again, and Gerard almost recognized it this time. “Relax,” it said, deep and nasally, and, “It’s just me.”

“Frank!” the noirette boy whined, and grimaced at the younger one, who now stood before him. He was wearing a loose, striped sweater that hung about five sizes too big off his tan, yet noticeably malnourished body. The sleeves were so long they covered the ends of his fingertips and Gerard found this slightly endearing– he looked like a three-year-old trying on their mother’s clothes.

“That’s me,” the boy chirped, and raised one hand to his mouth, where he placed a cigarette between his pastel lips. “Silverware’s right behind you, by the way,” he mumbled around the Lucky Strike, and with his other hand slipped a pack of matches from his pocket.

“You don’t have a lighter?” the older boy asked curiously, watching as Frank ran one match across the top of the pack and used it to light his cigarette, before putting out the flame between his calloused forefinger and thumb.

“A what?” the boy muttered. Gerard just shook his head.

“Never mind– what are you doing up here again?” the artist asked; and he moved a reasonable distance away from the trapdoor hole he had, grazie Maria, almost fallen into again. Frank blinked at him, and he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, passing it to the noirette.

“Maybe I wanted to see you again, huh?” he spoke, voice almost a purr.

“And the front door wouldn’t’ve sufficed?” Gerard laughed. He took the cigarette from the younger boy and drew a puff from it, holding in the smoke just long enough that he felt his lungs start to burn before he exhaled, and looked at Frank curiously. He passed the cigarette back.

“Maybe I was running.” And that definitely was a purr this time, and he winked mischievously at the artist before placing the Lucky Strike back between his lips. “I missed your pretty face, darling,” he cooed, and began to walk to the windowsill. “Sit with me?” he asked, words escaping in a cloud of smoke. Gerard really wished he weren’t as tempted– after all, he’d almost convinced himself since the boy’s last visit that said boy was a figment of his imagination. But he supposed he was wrong; which only actually made him right, in some sense of the word– so he moved and sat down next to the younger boy, who was gazing wistfully out the window.

“It’s so pretty out there,” he sighed, and Gerard nodded.

“Molto bello.” He held his hand out to Frank, who passed the Lucky Strike; but not before letting his fingers linger almost teasingly in the artist’s own. He looked up and flashed a coy smile to the older boy.

“Was I right about the silverware, then?” he asked abruptly; and Gerard was almost so surprised he inhaled too much, and the borderline flame in his lungs was not a friendly familiar. He coughed lightly, and Frank said, “Didn’t mean to startle you.” He gave the artist that same shy smile.

After a while, the noirette looked down; almost embarrassed. “Yes,” he mumbled. Frank scooted closer to him, leaning his head against the older boy’s shoulder as he stole the cigarette back.

“I tend to do that,” he teased. “Make people forget what they came for– because by the time they leave, they only ever want me.”

“You’re a very outright person,” Gerard noted. The boy laughed smoke against his neck.

“Oh, you noticed? I’m flattered.” He leaned up so that is nose was pressed right against Gerard’s ear, and he breathed, “It tends to make people nervous. I just have fun.”

The artist honestly could not place why he wasn’t off put by his younger companion’s actions; beside the fact that the boy was oddly endearing, and kind of hot– or maybe it was for those reasons exactly. He turned his head so that he was facing Frank; and the boy’s nose pressed now into his cheek, but he didn’t move away. “You know, I like you,” he muttered, and took another puff off the Lucky Strike. The close proximity of the cigarette to Gerard’s neck was almost bothering the older boy; and as the cigarette bobbed between Frank’s lips as he spoke, debris fell down the artist’s shirt. He really couldn’t be bothered to care.

Eventually –Gerard didn’t know if it had been a minute or an hour, because Frank had been purring into his neck and nearly singing his skin with the cigarette’s cherry, and it was very distracting– the younger boy pulled away, and he passed the Lucky Strike to Gerard for the artist to take one last puff before he put it out against the bottom of his shoe, like before. “So who are you, exactly?” he asked, and Gerard turned to him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who are you? What’s your story– why are you sitting up here in your attic with me when you could be, well Lord, anywhere else in the world?” Pastel lips turned up at the corner as Frank finished his explanation, and his eyes shined eager for the other boy’s story.

Gerard laughed. “I’m exceptionally no one,” he said aloud, “yet I’m anything but average.”

“Oh, do tell.” Frank leaned back in to Gerard and his sweater drooped down low on his chest, revealing ivory skin and– wait, were those red marks around his neck? Angry, red, and wow. It was more of a solid line, breaking in only a few spots as if something had been bearing on it for a while. Whatever, Gerard shook the thought away. Frank could just be into some kinky shit. That was fine with him.

He still found himself pulled more out of the matter than he’d anticipated, and so he said, “Sorry?”

“Anything but average…?” Frank trailed off helpfully. “I want to know. Tell.”

“Oh, God. It’s such a boring story,” he complained, but Frank only smiled at him.

“I refuse to believe, darling, that anything about you could be boring.”

Gerard sighed then, and he said, “Alright, well. I’m an artist. I am approximately twenty years of age. I have a lot of self-hate and a kid brother, and I lived in Belleville up until Elena got sick…”

“Is that why you moved here?” the younger boy asked. Gerard nodded.

“Yeah. Someone had to take care of her. No one lives in this house with her, or anything. She’s been all alone for a while. Though I haven’t seen as much of her as I thought– I suppose Mikey’s been taking care of her. He can’t stand being without something to do, some sort of order or whatever; so I guess it’s better he’s the one taking care of her, for now at least.” The noirette stopped suddenly, flustered, and then said, “Sorry, does that even make any sense? I’m rambling.”

“I like it,” Frank said. “I like your voice. I like your accent. Say my name.”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Gerard laughed; and Frank’s hazel eyes lit up slightly.

“Do it though,” he prodded. The artist laughed again.

“Frank,” he stated, and then giggled. The boy before him broke into a smile.

“God, I love that laugh,” he grinned. “Say it again though. No, say my last name.”

“I don’t know your last name,” the noirette pointed out.

“Iero.”

“Potato?”

“Shut the fuck up, you know I didn’t say that,” the younger boy giggled, and he shoved the artist lightly. “Iero. Like eye-ear-oh, I guess.”

But Gerard didn’t say it like that; when it came out, it sounded more like ‘ay-air-oh’. Frank just smiled.

“Close enough. Maybe I like it better that way. God, your voice is so fucking pretty.”

“You’re still so weird,” the older boy reminded. Frank waved him off. 

“Whatever. I know you like it when I say your name. Gerard,” he purred, dragging out the ‘a’. “See? I saw you blush.”

Gerard brought his hands up to hide his face. “You can’t see me now, fucker,” he pouted. Frank just asked, “What’s your last name?”

“Way.”

“No way?” he laughed. Gerard brought his hands down to glare at the younger boy.

“You’re a little shit.”

“Mmm,” he hummed. Gerard figured that he was probably remembering the potato incident, what with the way his expression called bullshit on so many levels. “I’m sure I’m the worst one here.”

“Hey, I don’t have a voice fetish,” the artist laughed. Frank stuck his tongue out.

“Whatever. I’m not the one with the brother and his ‘need to please Master’. You know that’s what it is, right? He gets off on that?”

“Don’t talk about it!” the older one practically yelled, and he flailed an arm in Frank’s direction. “No, no, no sir. I sure do not want to know about the things my brother gets off on.”

“Aw, you’re not one of them weird ones?” Frank joked. Gerard cringed.

“Don’t talk about ‘them weird ones’, Jesus.”

Frank gave him the “Really.” face. “Mhm. Okay, tell me more about you, artist boy. Tell me what those pretty eyes have seen, what those calloused hands have touched. Tell me all about your first kiss and your last meal, and all the darling things in between. I wanna know about you, artist boy. I’m intrigued.”

“Weird,” Gerard stated, and he kept a serious face about as long as he figured he’d be able to stand around a needle. Frank smiled at him.

“Yeah, but I think, Mr. Way, that you may just be starting to fall for my weirdness. Admit it, I’m cute– and you wanna put your hands under my shirt and see all the kinda noises I’d make.” The boy smiled deviantly, and he toyed his fingers around Gerard’s wrist for a moment before taking the noirette’s hand and placing it under the hem of his sweater. 

The elder boy mock-pouted. “Aw, now you don’t make those noises pre-provocation? I don’t get ‘em for free, then. I gotta do something, I gotta work for them?”

The younger boy took in a breath, short and choppy; and he scrunched his face up slightly and let past pastel lips a small, “Ah.” And he bit the bottom of his lip, and then, “Mm… that’s all you get.”

Gerard was, to say the least, stunned by how quickly the emotions had changed in the boy before him. Frank only laughed, and said, “Oh, do my acting skills surprise you?”

Gerard removed his hand from underneath the boy’s sweater and moved it to his hip; and he pushed him down on the window seat abruptly, leaning over him and biting back a smile at the soft noise the boy made. His face was all screwed up again, and his cheeks were tinged pink; and he was breathing heavily, as if he expected something more to happen. But Gerard only leaned down, and breathed into the boy’s ear, “Did I surprise you?”

“There aren’t words to describe your assholish-ness,” the younger boy pouted; and he opened his hazel eyes and met them with Gerard’s, and said, “I like you up there, artist boy. The view is, really, stunning.”

Gerard laughed. “No, you can probably see up my nose, or something. Plus, it can’t be all that great considering it’s my face.”

“Only you would go and ruin something so perfect by saying, “You can probably see up my nose.” Which, oh, I can. Great. Moment’s ruined, thanks.” But Frank only smiled. And then he said, “Can you stay like that for a while?”

Gerard couldn’t imagine this position particularly comfortable– one knee was shoved between Frank’s own and his weight was pretty much all on the boy’s left hip, and he was sure he’d at one point jammed the younger in the side with his elbow, but Frank then added, “Just put your arms up over my head and pretend like you’re never gonna leave.”

“Why?” But he found himself doing what Frank requested, hovering himself over the younger boy so that their chests were touching and their noses almost were.

“Because everyone leaves,” Frank said fondly; and for a minute it took the artist a while to realize what he had said, for the tone of his voice was much off-putting to his actual words.

“Oh?”

“What kind of art do you do?” Frank asked suddenly. His eyes were closed and he looked at peace with himself; as if being somewhat caged underneath Gerard gave him a sense of safety.

“I dunno. It’s art. I do comic-type stuff,” the older boy supplied, hoping it was helpful information. Frank made a humming noise in response.

“Have you ever written a comic book?”

“Yeah, lots of times. But apparently they all sucked,” the older boy sighed.

“That’s disappointing,” Frank mumbled.

“Are you falling asleep?”

“Hmm?” Frank opened one eye and raised a perfect eyebrow. “No, I’m making this last.” The eye returned closed.

“Ah. So I just get to hover here then? Like some kind of hovering thingie? Like a ghost?”

“Or a hovercraft.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, you do. Unless you’d rather be doing something else, in which case go right the heck ahead.”

Gerard realized that he didn’t particularly want to do anything else. “Nah, this is fine.”

“Exactly.”

Gerard wanted to say something like, “I kinda want to kiss your face but I’m actually a pussy bitch and I mean I’ve known you for like three days so is that weird?” but he didn’t, because he didn’t want to make himself look like any bigger of a moron. Instead he said, “So what about you?” and he felt Frank shrug underneath him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything I enjoyed,” the younger boy stated simply.

“Why?”

“Setbacks.”

When there was seemingly no other words from the younger boy, Gerard said sarcastically, “Oh, well don’t worry, you don’t need to tell me what they are.”

Frank only shrugged again. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t. And then, “Death.”

“Death? Death is your setback– oh, so did someone in your family die, or something?”

Frank opened his eyes and said softly, “Something like that. Anyway, I can’t really do half the stuff I’d wanna. So I’m not really exceptionally anything either.”

Gerard was about to respond when he heard a shout that sounded annoyingly like his kid brother. “Gerard! A-fucking-gain! I need the damn silverware!”

“You should probably go,” Frank muttered, and looked away. Gerard sat up and nodded, and Frank followed suit.

“Yeah, probably. But hey, I’ll see you again right? You’ll come chill with me in my attic?”

Frank looked as if he were gathering himself, even though he didn’t really have anything to gather. “Yeah,” he said lightly, and a laugh escaped him. “Turns out I’m up here all the time.”

Gerard didn’t let himself think about what that meant as he turned to descend the attic stairs. He only found himself thinking of when he would see Frank next; and what the Hell was Frank’s deal anyway, but Gerard kinda liked it.

And even though it was only minutes before, he’d completely forgotten about the silverware.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might seem like a filler chapter, and it kinda is, but there's also plot-developy moments in here, so bare with it x3 xokilljoy

August 9th, 1997

 

Gerard really loved days like these– when the autumn wind crept in and surmounted the summer heat; and knocked down a few rusted leaves in the process. He loved the days where he could rest himself on the chip-paint back porch of his grandmother’s house and listen to the damp breeze and watch the leaves drift down– and map everything out for drawing later; because the colors were absolutely magnificent in the border-on-fall weather, and Lord knew the artist was one for the beauty of the seasons, even if he did stay inside for most of them.

Gerard really loved these days, because he could escape. But as his grandmother’s voice carried out of the house and unwilling into the range of his hearing, dreaded words like doctor’s office and tests, pneumonia and getting worse, he supposed he should stop escaping for the time being; and get back to the reality in which he would so rather not be.

He pushed himself up off the porch steps and ran the top of his thumb against his nails to remove any lodged chips of paint, and he walked in through the backdoor, into the kitchen. He passed Elena on the way, who was flitting about up and down the halls looking worried and serious and oh, God, Gerard only wanted to scoop the woman up into a hug and find some sort of cure for the simple diseases that came much worse to old age.

He gave her a sad smile, which she returned wholeheartedly– and he wished to himself that she would stop faking it as he made his way to the coffee pot.

The artist prayed to whatever deity was up there, thank God that there was already some of the rich black liquid made and waiting for him– so he poured himself a cup and leaned against the kitchen counter, and let his thoughts wander from his grandmother to less pressing matters.

Like Mikey– which, where the Hell was Mikey; because he’d gone out a quarter to an hour ago on a walk around a town that was maybe a mile in diameter, and the artist hadn’t seen him since. He took another sip of his coffee as he contemplated the timing of his brother’s arrival; and then the timing of telling his brother that Elena was actually sick, bambino, that’s why we’re up here.

Gerard threw his head back and sighed, deeply, and wished, really wished that he could just snap his eyes open and be home and not here; because not that he didn’t love his grandmother but his grandmother was dying, really, even if she wasn’t now she would be and his brother was missing in action, Jesus, this may have been a small town but small towns are normally abandoned and the housing of creepy serial killers, and–

The door opened, suddenly, causing Gerard to snap out of his never-ending profusion of mental drama and he looked up; and there was Mikey, a palm to one eye and blood out the corner of his mouth and maybe his nose and Jesus, indeed.

Gerard dropped the mug in shock, the porcelain shattering against the old, wood floors and he rushed in haste to his brother, who weakly held out a hand to stop the older boy from bombarding him with Lord knew what.

“I don’t need… help,” he coughed out, weakly; and he raised one hand to wipe at his now steadily-dripping nose. Gerard narrowed his eyes and said flatly, sarcasm dripping from his words, “You don’t need help. Really.”

“I don’t,” he wheezed, and then hunched over, gripping at his stomach. “Nope, m’gonna vomit. Need help, I need help,” and he clung to his brother and growled, “Move,” and Gerard didn’t really bother thinking before hastening himself and his brother to the bathroom.

The door slammed behind the two boys and Mikey gripped at the toilet seat and lurched forward again; and Gerard’s nose scrunched up in distaste because oh, how he hated vomit, he’d done it enough himself to know– and he looked away before coming to realize himself, and his situation. This was his brother, Jesus; and so he lodged himself beside the younger boy and held matted, blonde curls away from his bloodied face and shut his eyes and pretended he was in his happy place as his brother retched into the toilet.

“Oh, piccolo,” he muttered pitifully, and he stroked his hand through the younger boy’s hair. “What happened, kiddo?”

“I’m a bit busy, Gee,” the younger one grumbled, and then gagged again, and whined, “Oh, all things holy–” and vomited again.

Gerard sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he continued stroking his brother’s with the other, and was about to return to trying to help with more than a few words in Italian which clearly weren’t, when a voice interrupted him.

“Gerard, bambino? Is everything okay in there?” Gerard’s eyes widened at Elena’s voice and he looked to Mikey, who shook his head, eyes mirroring the older boy’s.

“Nu-uh– oh,” he moaned, and then threw up again, and the same time Gerard fake-coughed, loudly.

“Everything’s fine, Nonna,” he called, voice sickeningly sweet. “We’re just taking a–” and he cut himself off, and added, disgruntled, “shower.” And his face pulled into a disturbed grimace, and Mikey rolled his eyes.

“Together?” the old woman asked hesitantly.

“Oh, all the time,” the artist called back pathetically, expression still etched into his features. He hoped to God Elena didn’t hear it when Mikey threw up again.

“Oh, you know that’s not normal, right?”

“Yup.” And he looked down, and closed his eyes tight and said, “We’re not the weird ones, Grandmama, I swear,” and Elena hummed in response.

“Well, okay. I’m going to head over to Angelique’s now, sweetie. Be good bambinos while I’m gone, please dears.”

“Tell Mrs. Haverdash I said hi,” Gerard called back weakly. Elena hummed again; and the artist sighed with great relief as he heard her footsteps dissipate down the hall.

“In the shower? Really?” Mikey whined. He was sat back from the toilet and when Gerard gave him a skeptical glance he waved him off, and said, “M’good for now. But really, Gerard? You couldn’t think of anything better– and all the time, oh. Great, now she thinks we shower together all the time.”

“Well I didn’t want her worrying ‘bout you being sick, and then coming in and seeing you all blood– which, speaking of, what the Hell happened?” Gerard’s mood changed rapidly back into Big Brother mode and he began fretting over the blonde boy; he pushed the younger one’s blood-matted hair back and frowned. “Where are your glasses?”

“In half,” Mikey carped, and sniffed. “Ugh, it tastes like blood and acid. I wanna go home,” he whined pathetically.

“We are home,” Gerard said softly as he reached up and wetted a tissue, and then brought it to his brother’s face, trying to get the blood off. “Oh, you will need to shower though, if you want this stuff out of your hair.”

“I want to go home-home though,” he whined. “Like, momma home.”

“You sound five,” Gerard said, but he took pity on his brother. “I know. But we’re here with Nonna now, okay? We’re gonna be visiting for a while and it won’t be so bad, you’ll see.” And he wiped the end of Mikey’s nose with the wetted tissue before planting a soft kiss there.

“Ew,” the younger boy cried. “You’re babying me.”

“You’re being one,” the artist retorted. “But now, tell me what happened?”

“I got beat up by Troy LeDouche,” he said angrily, voice raising at the mockery of the boy’s last name.

“What, the mayor’s son? The nineteen-year-old mayor’s son beat up my sixteen-year-old brother, really. That’s fucking illegal, the little cunt–” and Gerard threw the wet tissue onto the floor with more than the originally needed force. “I’ll make him eat his insides–!”

“Gee, please,” Mikey cried, and reached out and brought the older boy’s arm back down to a safer, less threatening level. “Please, don’t do anything about it. He won’t do it again, okay, but don’t make this a big deal?”

Gerard huffed; but he took a deep breath, and said, “Okay, I’m calm. I’m calm. Ah, jeez, but what did he do? Tell me–” Mikey looked at him disbelievingly, “I won’t get mad!”

“I was walking ‘round wherever, looking on the edge of town and by the churchyard, y’know? And I dunno. He called me a ‘scrawny little faggot’ and then asked if I’d suck his cock for a five, to which I said that I wouldn’t suck anything on him ever for all the money in the world, and then he punched me in the nose. Twice. And the eye– and then like seven times in the stomach. And he laughed, and I laid there in a miserable blind ball for like three minutes, until I decided I was better off home and not dying in front of a church, Jesus. That’s why it took me so long to get home,” the boy mumbled. Gerard growled.

“I promised I’d be calm, so I won’t scream. But–” The artist bit his lip and puffed out a haughty breath of air, and laughed. “Ooh, the little shit.”

Mikey looked at him pleadingly. “Please, just– don’t tell anyone. Okay? I sound like a little bitch, I know, but–”

“But it’s illegal, Mikey. By law. Like, I could put his ass in jail because he touched you, oh–” and the artist brought his brother into a tight hug, and said, “Don’t you ever fucking leave anywhere without me again, okay? God, you’ll worry me straight to an early grave and I’ll be a ghost trapped in this stupid house forever.”

“I’m not a baby,” the younger one began to protest, but Gerard cut him off.

“You are, you’re my baby, you’re my little bambino baby brother and it’s my job to protect you, and I fucking failed–”

“That’s all well and good, Gee, but I can still taste last night’s chicken noodle whateverthefuck and it’s pretty fucking gross, and there’s blood in my hair– can I get cleaned up now, please?”

“Oh, duh, yeah. Sorry.” Gerard let go of his brother then, and stood up. “Sorry, I’ll just–” but he stopped himself, because Mikey was still sat on the floor, looking helpless.

“Am I actually going to have to shower with you?” Gerard laughed; but Mikey looked serious from his spot on the floor, and so the older boy sighed, and helped him up. “Ah, jeez. Okay, okay. Well okay. Can you get undressed by yourself?”

“I’m not incompetent,” the younger boy growled. “Just help me up and stay here, okay, in case I fall over or something, damn.”

“Okay, well. I’ll just look intently at this conspicuous wall stain while you get all your clothes off. Wow, what a nice wall stain. Did you know this wall stain was here? I wonder how long it’s been here, and what caused it? Wow, this wall stain actually has a history, man. Isn’t that weird? Something so simple as a wall stain has all this back story. It’s pretty cool, actually, it kinda looks like a cactus–”

“Gee. Please. I’m fucking undressed already. Stop orgasming over your wall stain and help me?” Mikey pleaded. Gerard looked around surprisedly at his younger brother, who stood boxer-clad with his arms crossed, looking unamused.

“Well hold up!” the older boy cried, and pulled his shirt over his head. “M’not getting in in all this,” and he kicked his pants off, and thanked the holy Lord he didn’t fall and crack his head against the wall stain because that would be just like him, man, and then there would be an even bigger wall stain, and– oh, great. Mikey was looking at him all grumbly now. “Okay, fine.”

There was borderline more than a tolerable amount of complaining on the younger Way’s part as Gerard helped him into the shower; and then he let out a pretty un-masculine shriek when the artist turned the water on and the spray shot out hellfire hot against his back, and he jumped up into Gerard’s chest and cried out, “I hate this stupid old house.”

Gerard didn’t mind the ‘stupid old house’. Sure, the floorboards creaked, and the paint was chipping off; and he was sure they had rats, or a ghost, or something– but it was just as much his home as his real home was. Plus, he had learned long ago that the world was an ugly place, so you had to appreciate the beauty in the simple things. They weren’t corrupt yet.

“Okay, can you wash your hair by yourself?” the artist asked. Mikey narrowed his eyes.

“Not incompetent,” he reminded. “I just need you here for like, steadiness. Hold me in place, or something. Plus you gotta help me out the damn shower, too.”

“So what, am I just supposed to stand here and like, watch you then?”

“No.”

“Then why am I in here?” the older boy cried.

“Moral support,” Mikey retorted. Gerard just sighed and thanked God he wasn’t getting too wet, particularly, because the water was mostly hitting Mikey; and he distracted himself with a semi-interesting crack in the wall.

It wasn’t a terribly long time before Mikey was snapping his brother out of a cute-boy-named-Frank-and-wall-crack-filled trance and whining about how he wanted to get out now, please, so assistance would be nice.

Gerard sighed and turned the water off –which only scared Mikey again, and the artist mocked him for it– and helped his brother out of the shower, and squeezed the water out of his hair and sat on the sink counter in damp boxers and a damper attitude while Mikey huddled himself under a fuzzy towel.

“Thank you,” he mumbled into the fluffy yellow material. “I’m a bitch to deal with.”

“You got fucking beat up, kid,” Gerard said, and he leaned out a hand and ruffled his brother’s slowly-drying hair. “You get a pass today.”

“Oh, oh thanks for that,” the blonde said sarcastically; but the corner of his mouth was turned up in a smile. “So before I came home all ew, what were you doing?”

Gerard pushed himself off the counter and stood behind his brother, and as he opened his mouth to respond he opened the door to none other than his grandmother, who turned and gave a raised eyebrow.

“You really did shower together? I thought you were joking. Well, I didn’t know what you were doing, but I didn’t think you were telling the truth,” she said thoughtfully, and smiled warily at the two boys.

“Thanks, grandma,” Gerard said disdainfully, and he ushered Mikey out the door. “Go get dressed, piccolo, and I’ll be in there in a second.”

When Mikey had made his way up the stairs and out of earshot, Gerard turned to his grandmother, and sighed. “So, how bad is it this time?”

“Oh, bambino. They want to do tests on me– I’m going in tomorrow, in fact– that call was just a reminder call, but yes; so I will be gone all of lunch tomorrow, and I’ll probably stop in town for a meal, don’t worry about feeding me. But I’ll be home before dark, okay?”

Gerard blinked slowly, and then took his grandmother into a hug. “They better make you fucking well again,” he mumbled into her shoulder, ignoring her protests at his foul language. “Ah, jeez, Elena.”

“I’ll be fine, dear. Don’t worry about a vecchia like me.”

“You say that a lot, but it never helps,” the artist sighed, and pulled away from the hug. “Okay, well I’m gonna go coddle the sourpuss baby for a bit, and then I’ll be down to make dinner, okay? Don’t fret yourself over anything, now. Read a book, take a nap, get better,” he pleaded. Elena just smiled.

“Okay, bambino, okay.” And the old woman made her way down the hall and into her room.

Gerard smiled sadly after her, and turned toward the staircase, and began to ascend it. As a frequent, he let his fingers trace over all of the divots in the wood; until one made him stop, and question. He looked down where his hand had been previously and sure enough, there was something carved into the wood– FAI.

Gerard blinked, and ran his hand over the markings. He didn’t remember having ever seen them before, but they looked old– years old. Lots of years old.

Whatever. Gerard shrugged the thought off and took the rest of the steps two at a time. He had to wrangle his kid brother down the stairs again, and figure out a way to get the poor by to help with dinner because there was no way Gerard was doing that all by himself.

He ignored the vanilla scent that wafted along with him in the hallway. After all, it didn’t really bother him.


	6. Chapter Five

August 12th, 1997

 

“Gee-bear?” The blonde boy poked his head around the doorframe to the artist’s room, wearing an oversized sweatshirt down to his knees and appearingly no pants. He shuffled into the room more, looking ridiculously stupidly shy with his fingers curled barely over the edges of the sleeves. Gerard raised an eyebrow as Mikey stopped, and leaned into the doorframe, and said, “I need new pants.”

“You need new pants.” The noirette repeated the words and he set his issue of Doom Patrol down next to him– the one that he’d read so many times over he knew the script like the back of his hand. “Uh, might I ask why?”

Mikey sighed dramatically, waving his arms about in exaggeration. “Because.” He let his arms fall down and the sleeves came with them, covering the entirety of his hands. “I can’t just walk around in this… this dress,” he grumbled.

Gerard snorted, and he held his arms out to his brother, motioning for the younger boy to come towards him. “Get over here, dork,” he smiled, voice light and joking. Mikey shuffled closer to him and sighed, and said, “I feel ridiculous.”

“You are ridiculous,” he ricocheted. “But ridiculous won’t get you new pants with my dwindling supply of cash; so tell me why you need new ones.”

“The old ones got too small,” Mikey whined, and blushed. “My ass wouldn’t fit into them.”

“You have no ass,” Gerard laughed, and Mikey cried, “I do too!”

“Alright, you have a flat ass. And I guess you have been getting bigger– taller. I meant taller,” he quickly corrected when his brother gave him a glare, face flushed. “Okay… I guess,” the older boy finally shrugged. Mikey grinned.

“Really, you mean it?”

“Yeah, I mean it. We can’t have you walking around with that flat ass of yours hanging out, jeez.” Gerard reached out and ruffled Mikey’s bleached hair, and gave an open laugh. Mikey humphed at him.

“Can we go today though? I’m kinda in urgent need,” the younger boy asked, slightly pleading. Gerard shrugged, and pushed himself off his bed and made way to his dresser.

“Yeah, just let me find you some bottoms…”

 

“Remember when I said I felt ridiculous?” Mikey asked. Gerard turned the radio down and looked over at the passenger seat to his brother, who was pulling an Eeyore. He made a noise of recognition and Mikey said, “Well I lied. I really feel ridiculous now.”

“Shut up, it’s not that bad,” Gerard said, and rolled his eyes. The artist’s khaki cargo shorts were already ghastly to begin with, and they admittedly did hang off the blonde boy three sizes too big; but the kid was small, what could you do. “You’re just lucky they cover your weird-ass knees.”

“Do you have to make fun?” Mikey pouted.

“It’s my job,” Gerard said, and smiled at the younger boy.

“I thought it was your job to protect me,” Mikey retorted sarcastically.

“Of course– from everyone but me.” And he laughed, boisterously, and turned the radio back up just a bit. 

 

“So where are we going?” Gerard asked after a while. They were currently driving through the miserably small town of White Oak; because once you escaped the Grove, there was still more– a school, and a few shops, a deli and coffee place that didn’t serve stuff too bad, and Gerard was tempted to stop there and abandon his brother for an hour or so, but Mikey pulled him out of his thoughts.

“There,” he said, and pointed to a store on the corner of a block. Gerard turned the car and parked in front of a small store, a shop called Wired with the ‘R’ all backwards and a fat period at the end. It looked more like a hoodoo shop than something that would sell clothes –let alone clothes his brother would wear– but he wasn’t about to judge. Hell, just because he wore the same three shirts and pairs of boxers didn’t mean that anyone else had to.

“It looks a bit… um.” Gerard said as they stepped out of the car and walked up to the shop. The artist could clearly see now through the window that clothes did indeed inhabit the odd, bijou building.

Mikey turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “Um?” he said. “It looks a bit ‘um’. Ah, okay?”

“Well, whatever,” the noirette sighed, and pushed his way into the shop.

Small bells clanged as the door swung open and Gerard looked up at them, and the few tiny bones that hung along with them. The artist couldn’t tell if they were real or not– he didn’t want to know.

A petite woman with graying hair greeted Mikey as he stepped up to the counter, directing him to the pants section straight away. Gerard still stood in the front of the store, looking around curiously. He was about to just give up and ditch his brother for coffee –which, wow that actually sounded pretty great– when he noticed a compact box in the corner filled with old vinyls. He let out a definitively girlish squeal of appreciation and made his way over to the box, and began leafing through the records.

“Dude,” he called out to his brother, holding up a record, “they have Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness for ten bucks!”

“Buy it!” Mikey practically yelled back, voice full of enthusiasm. Gerard let out a ‘duh’ in response and slipped the album under his arm, continuing to browse through the others.

When he was sure he could spend no more money on vinyls alone, the artist slipped away and into another corner of the store, where he nearly orgasmed again because oh my god, art stuff, this was so cool and everything was priced practically a rip-off to the store– or maybe the old woman running the shop was just extremely generous.

 

After a bit of time, and a lot of art supply collecting, Mikey called out, “Okay, I’m ready to go!”

Gerard pouted at him but moved away from the stuffed-animal collection he was currently gawking over, and made his way to the counter. He set down three vinyls, a set of graphite pencils and two pads of drawing paper, and a yarn cat on the checkout next to his brother’s two pairs of gray, ripped skinnies and, “Twenty dollar Doc Martens? Damn!”

Gerard blushed and looked down, abashedly at his choice words, “Sorry,” he muttered to the old woman, who smiled and waved him off.

“Not a problem, dear,” she said softly, and began to ring up the items. “Okay, your total today comes to 80 flat.”

Gerard pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and fished four twenties out of it and handed them over, and said, “Worth it, man. I had my doubts about this place but Hell,” and he motioned to the shoes on the counter, “20 bucks? Jesus, man.”

He smiled, and collected the now-bagged items from off the counter, and said to Mikey, “Ready to go, bambino?” Mikey nodded, and hugged his new pants to his chest, looking significantly happier than he had when they’d walked in. “Thank you!” he said, to the old woman, as they were leaving the shop. She simply responded, “Have a nice day.”

“So I’m just letting you know,” Mikey said as they were walking back to the car to deposit their things, “that my total over here was 45, which… oh. Okay, that’s actually more than yours, never mind, ignore me, blah blah blah.” The blonde boy blushed. “Thank you,” he mumbled, and hugged his brother.

“Yeah, no problem, piccolo. Wanna go get coffee?” But the two boys were already making their way across the street to the little coffee shop, an equally odd-looking place titled Smiths with an exclamation point for the ‘I’ and Gerard wonder why as a kid, when he visited Elena, he’d never noticed any of this.

Then again, Elena rarely left the grove. Gerard was starting to think that, really, once you entered the Grove, you didn’t leave. And he wasn’t sure if that was disturbing or not.

He opened the door to the shop and held it open for his brother, who shuffled through happily straight up to the counter and ordered, “Two coffees, black,” smiling all the time at the rather bored-looking teen who stood behind the counter. His name tag read ‘Spencer’.

“Yup, okay that will be 6.50$, please,” he said simply, and Mikey looked back at Gerard, who was still stupidly standing in the doorway (because he had a tendency to do that when he felt out of place).

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and ushered himself up to the counter. He rooted about his wallet again and pullet out two fives, setting them on the counter. Mikey raised an eyebrow slowly, and said, “Dwindling supply, my ass.”

“Your flat ass,” Gerard retaliated, not missing a beat. Mikey pouted, and Gerard took his change back.

“Those coffees will be out in a just a second,” the boy, Spencer said, and then, to seemingly no one, “Brendon! Coffee!”

A boy looking not much older than fourteen popped up behind the counter, so suddenly that it almost gave Gerard a heart attack, and grabbed two cups off the counter swiftly before filling them up with the steaming rich liquid. He smiled a great big smile as he handed the cups over the counter to the brothers, whom the older of let Mikey grab because he was still struggling farcically with his wallet.

“Thank you,” Mikey smiled at the young boy, who grinned with all his teeth and said, “No problem!” and waved frantically as the two made their way over to a table. Gerard barely caught as the older boy, Spencer, shoved the younger one’s arm down and said something about being ridiculous.

There was that word again. Today was seeming like quite a ridiculous day.

“So I asked the lady in Weird,” Mikey began, ignoring when his brother corrected him, “about this Frank of yours.”

“What?” Gerard mumbled into his coffee cup, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

“Well, you know. Because I didn’t believe that he was real, right? Anyway, she said that she didn’t really know, but her grandmother lived in the Grove and– apparently the only Frank that’s lived in that town, as far as she knows, hasn’t lived there for a hundred years. A flat hundred. Isn’t that weird?” Mikey derided, and then said, “Conclusion? I’m right; you’re high.”

“Whatever.” Gerard rolled his eyes. “I know that Frank’s real. Just because you haven’t seen him doesn’t mean anything– and so what, because she said ‘as far as she knew’. Which, why would she anyway? Conclusion? You’re a butt. I just bought you 45$ worth of shit and coffee. Stop being a butt.”

“But it’s my job,” Mikey mocked, and then laughed. Gerard blinked at him.

“You think you’re funny,” the artist cooed. “That’s so cute I could just die.” He hid his smirk behind his coffee cup. “Your jokes are as flat as your ass.”

“If you make one more comment about my ass I’m just going to assume you have a thing for it, which, FYI, makes you one of the weird ones–”

“Don’t talk about the weird ones, sheesh!” Gerard cried. Mikey snickered at his older brother.

“Whatever. Your anal retentiveness fuels my being,” the blonde boy said. “All the more to mock you over.”

“You’re so nice,” Gerard purred sarcastically. “Suck a dick.”

“Mm, not my thing,” Mikey said, shaking his head. “I’ll pass.”

“Whatever, anyway.” Gerard set his cup down, now void of contents. “You ready to go?”

“I guess,” the blonde shrugged. He stood up then, and before following his brother out of the shop, turned and called to the young boy behind the counter, “Thanks again,” voice teasing, and he winked at the younger boy, who blushed and busied himself behind the counter.

“Not your thing, huh?” Gerard asked. Mikey shrugged.

“I was being nice,” he countered. “There’s a difference.”

“You were flirting.”

“I have fun.”

Gerard smiled at those words, softly, and when Mikey asked why, he just shrugged him off. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. You just remind me of someone, sometimes.”


	7. Chapter Six

August 18th, 1997

 

“Wanna come downstairs?”

“Oh?” 

The artist was shuffling his feet, biting at his crooked lip and glancing down when Frank looked at him, one perfect eyebrow raised in inquiry. “You want me downstairs?”

“Well, yeah,” he acceded, “Of course. I mean we’re always up in here and– Ah, I dunno. I thought it might be nicer downstairs, more space and stuff…” Gerard trailed off, and he was still anxious, as if inviting the other boy down into his home was synonymic to proposing himself a raise.

“Uh…” Frank was disconcerted for a moment, before settling himself on answering, “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Gerard looked up, confused. “Yeah what?” By now Frank had made from his wonted spot on the windowsill to the side of the older boy, and he laughed.

“Why are you so nervous?” he said, for it was seemingly out of character that the artist appeared so. “I’ll go down with you–” But he cut himself off, a sly expression etching into his face. “Wait. You trying to get me in bed with you?”

Gerard reprimanded him via punch to the arm. All the nervousness in the older boy was gone now, replaced by a look of exasperation soon fractured by a small smile. “No, dork. You wish.”

“I do wish,” the younger boy purred archly; and he draped one arm over Gerard’s shoulder, leaning in to the older boy. “All. Day. Long.”

The artist’s face flushed and he pulled the boy underneath him into a half-assed chokehold, and ruffled his hair as he would do to his brother. “No need to be prudish,” he voiced sarcastically. Frank laughed.

“Are you kidding? I’m a total killjoy. Now,” he pressed, “show me that bed of yours.”

 

Frank walked around Gerard’s room absorbedly, taking in each feature as if somewhere in his mind he was cataloging the differences. The artist didn’t exactly know what the younger boy would have the differences to compare to, but he enjoyed watching as he would trace his fingers along the polished furniture and make content humming noises. Gerard wasn’t exactly sure why he craved so badly the younger boy’s approval, but every time Frank made a noise of consent, his heart would jump just slightly and his pulse would speed up just a bit.

Finally, Frank’s attention landed on a polaroid image wedged up in the corner of the large vanity. It was one of him and Mikey a few years back, and across the white space the words of his brother in near illegible scrawl read, “Remember that I love you.” 

“This is your brother?” Frank asked softly. His fingers hesitated to brush the photo and Gerard said, “Yeah,” and then, “Go ahead. You can take it down.”

Frank turned back and smiled at him, and carefully dislodged the photo from the vanity. He held it carefully in his hands, as if touching possessions other than his was something endangering. He held it up to Gerard’s face, just so, and his lips quirked into a small smile. “Babyface,” he joked, voice hinting at licentiousness. He then said, “Well, he has your eyes.”

“We get that a lot,” Gerard admitted; and he moved across the room to Frank’s side, and looked at the polaroid. “People always say we have nothing alike, except our eyes.”

“Are his full of secrets too, then?” 

“Huh?” Gerard looked up from the photo to his companion, whose eyes met his gently, a coy grin accompanying.

“Your eyes are full of secrets,” he said simply. “Sometimes it looks like the weight of the world sits in those hazel eyes. Is that why your brother’s eyes are like yours? Do they hold the world too?”

“Wha- hmm?” Frank only laughed at the artist’s confusion; and he passed the photo off to the older boy, and said, “Never mind. How is he, though?”

“He’s great,” Gerard said, immediately dismissing his prior incomprehension as he returned the photo to its place in the vanity. “He’s… great. He’s starting school next month, you know? Senior year, man.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he’s–” But the artist interjected himself suddenly, “He doesn’t know… about my grandma, I mean. He’s… I just haven’t had the heart to tell him, you know?”

“You probably should.” Frank moved to set himself down on Gerard’s bed, and he extended his arms to the older boy. “Come sit with me,” he requested lightly.

Gerard made his way to the bed and set himself down next to Frank, who wrapped his arms lightly around the artist, and said, “I think you should.” And he laid his head on Gerard’s shoulder, “But maybe if he hasn’t got a clear mind, it’s not the best time.”

“Well, that’s the thing, I think he’s having an inner debate with himself; you know I don’t want to jump to conclusions but he’s my brother, and I know him a bit more than he thinks.” The artist sighed at that, and slumped himself more into the younger boy beside him.

“Well what’s on his mind, then?”

“I think he likes boys.”

Frank laughed. “That’s not a bad thing, why’s he worried?”

“I haven’t the slightest,” Gerard divulged, “But he’s probably scared, you know? It’s not like there’s a reason for it, but… maybe he just hopes he won’t end up like his big brother. Which, ouch, but that’s probably for the best anyway.”

“Oh, I think he’d be proud to grow up like you,” Frank smiled. “I think anyone would be proud to be like you.”

“Well, no,” Gerard began, but Frank silenced him, filling the air with a question in only moderate relation.

“Have you ever had someone?” he asked quietly. He slowly weaved his fingers between Gerard’s, and the artist looked down.

“In exactly what sense?”

“Oh, someone that you wanted, because they were special to you? I had one once,” the boy spoke, and he snapped his gaze to Gerard shortly before returning it to their joined hands. “Oh, I did. It was perfectly, undoubtedly illogical, but we were going to get married one day.”

“So why didn’t you?”

Frank smiled sadly. “Because all fantasies must come to an end; because little boys grow up, and dreams are wasted on cigarettes and petty products of temporary indulgence; because–” and he cut himself off, and snapped his gaze back up to the noirette before him. He smiled, and said, “Oh, he had the most perfect, pastel lips; and he had a hot touch,” and he giggled, before collecting himself. “But he had a rogue mind, and ice for a heart; and he was a scared little boy, and he couldn’t save me.” And Frank ended his speech, and once more flicked his tired, hazel eyes to the artist. “So… what about you?”

Gerard nuzzled himself into the younger boy, and held there until he said, “Sympathy doesn’t answer my question.”

“Well there was a guy once, but–” Gerard cut himself off with a curt life, and said, “He was like talking to a brick wall. He didn’t– well, he only wanted…” and he sighed.

Frank said, “He didn’t love you back.” The boy’s words were bold, but on the mark. Gerard nodded.

“Pretty much. I didn’t have a fairytale romance gone awry, I was just a stupid boy who wasted his time on a stupid hope that one day, I’d get out of there with someone by my side. I’d rather not, you know…”

“Let’s talk about something else then, hey?” Frank suggested. “Ah, I dunno. Oh, but lay down with me.” He pulled on the artist’s sleeve, laying down and bringing the older boy with him. He laughed then, and curled up next to Gerard, resting his head on his chest.

“What d’you wanna talk about, then?” The artist asked, looking down at the younger boy snuggled p against his side. He reached out and began to run his fingers through the boy’s hair, softly.

Frank shrugged. “I don’ care. Tell me about the last dream you had.”

Gerard tensed underneath the younger boy, face flushing. “Um–”

“Oh?” Frank looked at the artist’s blushed face, and laughed. “Now I really want to know.”

“Just things,” the older boy lied, hoping to shrug off the matter. But his younger companion was clinging like a limpet to the idea.

“No! Story time. Tell me all your dirty dreams, pretty boy,” he purred, and winked at Gerard.

“Things happened,” the older boy stressed, and put one hand up to hide his face. Frank quickly pried it away.

“Spill! I haven’t had a dirty dream in years, let me live through yours.”

“You’re so weird,” the artist complained, but Frank just smiled.

“Whatever, you love it,” he giggled. “Seriously though, tell me.” He began prodding at the older boy’s side, whining, “Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“There was a guy. And we did stuff.”

“Congratulations! The award for being the most descriptive human being on the planet goes to you,” Frank exclaimed, sarcastically. “C’mon, at least tell me who it was.”

At this, the artist flushed beet red. “Maybe you don’t know him.”

“Maybe it was me.”

“Maybe not though.”

“Maybe it was your brother, then.”

Gerard let out a mortified noise, expression pained. “Don’t say those things! I’m not– just, no.”

“You have such a problem with that,” Frank giggled, face scrunched up. “Why’s it such a big deal? You know I’m joking.”

“Yeah well one time I was really drunk, okay? We both were. And…” Gerard trailed off, glaring slightly at Frank’s amused expression. “I kissed him, right? Well he’s wasted off his head, can’t tell right from up and down from left, and so he kisses me back. And it was not okay,” the older boy said, emphasis heavy on the ‘not’, “and it was not legal, and it was not– it was awful. I can’t do that, I can’t get drunk and kiss my fucking brother, hell.” Gerard sighed then, and said, “He didn’t remember it in the morning, thank fucking God, but I did. I do, and so that’s why I have such a problem with… oh, whatever.”

“Yeah, that’s awkward,” Frank admitted. “So, not talking about that…” He looked up at Gerard then, and scooted himself up until his face was merely inches from the older boy’s. “There was a crooked man,” he began, breath ghosting over the artist’s parted lips, “who walked a crooked mile. He was crooked in the head and he had a crooked smile.” He leaned in more then, so that as he spoke, his lips brushed up against the older boy’s bottom one. “Your stupid crooked mouth,” he laughed softly, and then, almost warily, “Can I kiss you?”

And the artist breathed out a heavy, rushed, “Yes,” and he pushed himself up just slightly, pressing his open, pastel lips to the younger boy’s.

Frank brought one hand up to cup the artist’s face and he slid himself up and over the older boy, straddling him. Gerard’s arms went up and wrapped around the boy’s neck as they continued to kiss, softly, parted pastel lips against slightly chapped ones. The younger boy pulled away a bit, pulling on the artist’s bottom lip before parting entirely, and he said, “You taste like coffee.” He slid himself down the artist slightly, pressing small kisses to the older boy’s neck. 

Gerard let out a small mewl as Frank nipped lightly at the boy’s revealed collarbone, before sliding back up, hovering his lips over the older boy’s once more. “I don’t wanna stop,” he whispered, and he sounded almost scared; like if he let himself get off guard for too long, something would take Gerard away.

So the older boy said, “Then don’t.” And he slid his arms down Frank’s back, and grabbed at his hips, pulling the boy up against him. “Don’t stop.”

Frank pushed himself down against the artist lightly, every time he would come up and squeeze his hips, or pull him closer; and he pressed another quick kiss to the boy’s mouth before saying, “You know, I never kissed him like this.”

Gerard raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“Everything was hot and sloppy. God, this is so nice–” and Frank whimpered softly when the artist pressed up against him again. 

“Fairytale romance and he didn’t kiss you like you were his prince?” Gerard sounded almost appalled; but his voice was quiet, more sad than angry.

“We weren’t gentle, we were teenagers.” The boy’s lips quivered with his words and he placed shaky kisses to Gerard’s neck, and gave soft mews when the artist moved against him. “Cherries don’t care.”

“Well, I do.”

“But you’re not a–” and Frank looked up, suddenly, eyes wide with a childish humor. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, way to ruin the moment there,” Gerard huffed, and Frank giggled. 

“Sorry, you’re a virgin?”

“I am sorry. I’m sorry that you’re an asshole,” the artist grumbled, and he shoved at Frank, who wavered slightly before slumping to his side. He was still laughing. “Asshole!”

“It’s funny, though. You’re twenty?” The older boy only growled in response, and Frank started laughing again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” but he didn’t look sorry, not really.

“You are a big, fat dick,” the artist whined. 

“Oh-ho, is that a problem?” The boy taunted, and stuck his tongue out at the noirette. “I mean normally, that’s not a problem, but hey, what can I say? I’ve got good genes–”

“I’ll push you off this bed, god dammit.”

“I’m so threatened,” the younger mocked. “Haha, you’re a virgin. Hah– wait.” Frank stopped suddenly, seemingly contemplating something. Finally, he asked, “What entails sex, again?”

“Oh. My. God.”

“I thought hand jobs counted, sorry!”

Gerard wasn’t even mad anymore. He was doubled over with laughter at his younger companion’s lack of knowledge. “To losing your virginity? No! You idiot.” He waved a hand frantically, hitting Frank in the process. “Oh, you’ve never had sex, oh man,” he mocked, and then, “Oh wait, neither have I!” He had to press a hand to his mouth to contain his hysterics. He was sure the neighbors could hear, heck, maybe even the people outside of the Grove.

“You’re a butt,” Frank pouted. Gerard wiped at his eyes and looked at the boy incredulously.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” The pout didn’t let up. Finally, as the older boy had regained air to his lungs, he leaned in and kissed Frank’s bottom lip. “I’m sorry. We’re both fucking dorks.”

“Whatever,” the younger one whined; but he sounded marginally less bothered. He leaned in then, looking like he was about to kiss Gerard, but then he laughed, again, and said, “But how?”

“Oh, excuse me!” The artist cried. “It’s not like I haven’t done what you have; for the record, in high school, I wasn’t exactly a top pick.”

“I don’t believe it,” Frank said; and he really looked like he didn’t. Gerard rolled his eyes and said, “Well, do.”

“But like, why not?” The younger boy looked confused.

“Um, okay so imagine me about a lot of pounds heavier. And with short hair. Who doesn’t ever wash his clothes, or brush his hair, and is drunk all the time.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” the artist said, a pointed look on his face.

“Well, to be honest, you don’t look like you brush your hair now, and I’ve seen that shirt on you almost every time I’ve seen you; and you have chub.”

“Thanks.” Gerard said, voice flat. “That’s great.”

“Well, it’s true!”

“Remember when I said you were an asshole?” Frank nodded. “Remember what I said I’d do?”

At this the younger boy shook his head, slowly, until mortification dawned on his face just a bit too late; Gerard was already shoving him off the bed.

“So, you’re actually Satan,” Frank groaned, and looked up at Gerard, whose crooked mouth was turned up in a smirk.

“Maybe. Doesn’t that make you my little demon slave then?”

“Ooh, role-play. Kinky.” Frank pushed himself back up onto the bed, where he was only shoved right back off again. “Okay, that was an asshole move.”

“You’re dumb,” Gerard laughed. “I like watching you fall.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Frank cried, appalled. Gerard shrugged, and giggled. “Whatever,” the younger boy said, and gripped onto Gerard’s arm. “If I’m down here, then you’re coming down with me.”

Gerard let out a girlish shriek as he landed on top of Frank, who was sprawled out looking equally discomforted and surprised. “Hey, I remember this position!” he cried, and Gerard narrowed his eyes at him.

“You’re so fucking weird.”

“Whatever, chub boy.”

“That was uncalled for!” The artist cried. “Just for that, I’m going to sit on you.”

“Oh, Jesus no,” Frank begged. “You’re not fat, okay? But I don’t want things crushed–”

“Deal with it,” Gerard shot back; but instead, he pushed the boy back into a lying position and straddled his hips, and leaned down and pressed their lips together once again.

“I thought you– huh?” Frank said, in between quick, soft kisses.

“Well, yeah.” Gerard shrugged. “But I decided I’d rather do this.” And he leaned down again, right next to Frank’s ear, and said, “And I’m not gonna kiss you like a cherry; I’m gonna kiss you like a prince.”

The younger boy didn’t protest to that.


	8. Chapter Seven

August 19th, 1997

 

“D’ya wun gotuf owwit ‘e?”

“What?” The younger boy looked up, bemused expression on his face, half hidden by a small teacup. Gerard rolled his eyes and put his own cup down, and said again, “Do you want to go into town with me?”

“Okay, I swear to God that’s not what you just said, some weird Vulcan language or something or other…” Mikey set his cup down next to Gerard’s, and began walking to the stairs. “Uh, yeah. Just lemme grab my coat.”

And Gerard sighed, and took the two nearly-empty teacups and discarded their remains in the sink, and grabbed his keys off the counter and stopped in front of the stairs, and shouted, “While you’re at it, grab my wallet. It’s in the top drawer of my… oh, whatever.”

“Sorry?” Mikey popped his head around the corner of the hallway and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Your what?”

The artist blinked at him. “Never mind, I said,” he clarified. “I remembered it’s still in the car from last time.”

“Oh. Well, let me get my coat then…”

“What were you just doing?” the noirette cried. He rubbed at his eyes and said, “Sorry, my patience is just a bit thin today. I just want out of this god damned house…” He leaned against the stair banister and closed his eyes, and counted out 7/11 breathing until he heard his brother descend softly down the stairs.

The artist snapped open his eyes when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and Mikey asked, “Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine; like I said, I just need out of the house. I’ll even buy you shit again, just– I wanna be away, but not alone… does that make any sense?” Gerard sighed again, “I’m sorry. Whatever.”

“Something’s really stressing you out, Gee,” the blonde boy worried.

“Yeah, I know. Can we just… go?” Before his brother could respond, the artist had made his way to the door, and he was struggling to get it open. “Jesus Christ, I’m fucking trapped in here.” He rolled his eyes again, huffed, and slammed his fist against the old wood of the door. “Let me out of this god damned old house!”

Mikey furrowed his brow and rushed himself to his brother, where he pulled his arm down from threatening height and said, “Stressed, Gee.”

“Where’s the Xan–”

“No!” At that, Mikey hip-checked his brother out of the way, opening the door with ease. “Don’t you dare, Gerard. You’re just stressed; we’ll get through this. Look, door’s open, okay?” At this, he ushered his brother out the door.

“No need to push,” the older boy grumbled; and he sent an upset glare to the old house. Mikey sighed; and shut the door behind him, and looked up to the artist and said, “Talk to me.”

“I’ll tell you in the car, okay?” The lie burned on Gerard’s tongue, and on his lips like venom and he pushed at the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Jesus, beat me please.”

 

“So, what’s up?” The second Gerard’s car had left the driveway, Mikey was on his case and practically in his lap, trying to get the older boy to spill.

“You’re not helping!” the artist cried, and shoved his brother back into the passenger seat. “I’m just pissy. I need a drink.”

“You want a smoke?” Mikey asked, voice anxious as he tried to divert his brother’s attention just slightly. “I have smokes…” and the younger boy pulled from his coat pocket a half-full carton of Marlboros.

“Oh, good. Give me the whole pack,” the artist whined, and took the box from Mikey before the younger boy could even blink. “Oh, Jesus…”

“Please don’t chain-smoke all of ‘em,” the blonde boy begged; but Gerard was already frantically lighting up the cherry of the cigarette that had ended up somehow in his mouth.

“Do you think I could do two at a time?” the artist questioned. His eyes were blown wide when he looked at his brother, and he was twitching in his seat.

Mikey wanted to say about ten different things at the same time, starting with, “Watch the fucking road,” and, “Calm the fuck down,” but he settled on, “What, are you on crack?”

Gerard whimpered loudly and let his head fall back onto the seat with a thud. “I wish.” He inhaled deeply around the cigarette and pulled it out, blowing out a large cloud of smoke. He immediately moved to take another puff, and Mikey cried, “Jesus, not so fast!”

“I’m trying,” the artist moaned. His fingers were drumming frantically on the steering wheel and he looked about ready to jump out of his skin.

“Why are you so fucking antsy?” Mikey cried, and then, finally, “Watch the road, dumbass!” because Gerard was watching anywhere but the road, and if he kept that up they would crash.

“I miss sex,” the older boy whined finally, and took another huge puff off his cigarette. Mikey narrowed his eyes at him.

“Is that really the reason?” he cried, appalled. Gerard groaned out a, “No.”

“It’s because… oh, Jesus fuck,” and then, “Fuck,” about ten more times; and another three heavy puffs off his cigarette before he slammed on the breaks suddenly, and cried, “Fuck!” one more time. And then seven.

“What in the Hell is up with you?” Mikey shrieked, distress heavy in his voice. “Are you trying to kill us both?”

“Give me another cigarette,” the older boy said. His voice was unnervingly steady for his jittery state. Mikey looked at him in high alarm.

“Um, no?”

“Mikey, give me another fucking cigarette I swear to God–” but he cut himself off, cried, “I’ll do it my fucking self,” and slid another Marlboro from the pack. He put it in his mouth, replacing the half-smoked one, which he put out on the dashboard; and his hands were shaking violently as he lit the cigarette.

“You are scaring me to fucking death, Gerard, what the fuck!” But Gerard still ignored his younger brother; and slammed himself against the back of the car seat and threw his legs up on the steering wheel; and took long, steady puffs with second-long breaks off the Marlboro between his crooked lips.

“I kissed him,” Gerard finally said, and then moaned, really loudly, “Jesus, I kissed him.”

“Who the fuck are you talking about?” The blonde boy looked scared to death and fed up to here with the artist. Gerard rolled his eyes and took another puff of his cigarette.

“Frank,” he spat. “Duh.”

“Gerard, for fuck’s sake there is no Frank–”

“Except there is- and I kissed him, okay? I did and it was great and fuck, Mikes, fuck because I think I might be in love with him, oh God..” and the older boy trailed off, and let out a choked-back sob, and said, “God.” And he put out his cigarette on the dashboard again, and threw it somewhere in the backseat and said, “Oh, God, Mikes. I fucking love him.”

“Um, problem?” the younger boy asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

“Hinderances,” the older boy cried.

“Hinderances?”

“Bert.”

Mikey sighed, and slumped back into the passenger seat. “Oh, fucking Hell.”

 

“Are you sure you’re fine now– Gerard, what the fuck are you doing?”

The older boy’s expression was akin to a child with their hand in the cookie jar; and he was crouched down, hand hovering frozen over the head of a very scraggly-looking cat. “Um, petting?”

“You fuck, you’re allergic!” Gerard pouted, and lowered his hand to the cat. “Don’t you fucking dare–”

“But I want to!” and with that, the older boy clutched the cat to his chest, buried his face in the mangy fur, and let out a very loud sneeze.

Of course this loud disruption scared the cat to its wits, and it hissed loudly, batting a paw at Gerard’s face and cutting a heavy, red line down over his eye. The artist cried, “Fucking ow!”, sneezed again, and dropped the cat; which ran away immediately.

“You absolute fucking idiot!” Mikey cried, and dropped down on his knees next to his brother. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Gerard was pressing a hand to his steadily bleeding eye and cheek, and he sniffed, loudly, and sneezed again. “I’m sorry,” he pouted, and then coughed.

“You fucker, you dumb fucker.” The younger boy fretted at him, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away. “Let me see, let me– fuck, Gerard, let me help you, you idiot!” Gerard shook his head frantically, and let his legs bend out underneath him, falling to his ass on the concrete.

“I hate myself,” he cried, and buried his face in his knees; and sneezed again. Mikey sighed, exasperatedly, and rolled his eyes.

“Let me see your eye, please?” Gerard shook his head again. “Please? I swear, dealing with you– it’s like a fucking child.”

Gerard looked up at his brother, cut eye squinted shut, the other watery and red. He sneezed again.

“Gesundheit,” Mikey drawled, and then, “Open up,” and he prodded lightly at Gerard’s cheek. He wiped the blood from his finger onto his pants, which Gerard cried out in protest to, because, “I just bought those for you, idiot!”

“Shit, this is bad, Gee,” the blonde crooned worriedly, and took the hem of his shirt and began wiping the blood away. Gerard sneezed again, and Mikey cried, “Watch it! I almost jabbed you again.”

“I can’t help it,” the artist whined.

“You could have. Oh, Jesus, today just isn’t your day, is it?”

“No,” Gerard pouted. “Mikey, I feel shitty.”

“I know, fratello, I know… C’mon, come up, okay? It’s still bleeding, I need to get you to a bathroom…”

“How bad is it?” the artist asked.

“How bad does it hurt?”

“Like a lot of fucking knives in my eye,” the noirette replied.

“That’s how bad it is,” Mikey said back.

“Yay,” the artist said sarcastically.

“C’mon, though,” the younger boy pleaded, and he stood up, and pulled Gerard up with him. The older boy sneezed again, twice in succession. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

 

“Ah, Jeez… don’t– stop!” Mikey sighed, and put his arms down, sighing heavily. “Gerard, please stay still…”

The artist was currently occupying himself poking at the reddened, still-bloody scratch that trailed from slightly above his right eyebrow to barely underneath his cheekbone. “I look like a psychopath.”

“You are a psychopath. You know you’re allergic…” To further prove the younger boy’s point, Gerard’s nose began to run a bit. He sniffed, and put his hand down, turning back to face his brother. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.” And Mikey continued to wipe at the cut until it was all the way –or nearly all the way– washed of any blood. Gerard sniffed again, scrunching his face up, and let out a whimper. The cut began to bleed again.

“Dammit, am I gonna have to take you to a hospital?” The blonde boy gripped the artist’s chin, holding his face in place, and brought the wet tissue down across the scratch one last time, before he leaned in and kissed his brother softly on the nose.

“You’re babying me,” Gerard whined, and rolled his eyes. Mikey smirked.

“You’re being one.” He then brushed his finger over the cut and, when it didn’t start bleeding again, threw the tissue into the trash bin below the sink. “C’mon, big baby.”

“Thanks for letting us use your restroom,” Mikey called flirtatiously to the young boy behind the coffee counter– Brendon, the one from before. The boy blushed then, and said, “Oh, no problem. He– he looked like he needed it.”

“Well, we’re all cleaned up now,” the blonde spoke back, voice still holding the same air of promiscuity from before. Brendon blushed as Mikey made his way over to the counter, draping his arms over it and leaning so that his face was aligned with the younger boy’s. “Do you think we could get two mochas to go?”

“O-of course,” Brendon stuttered in reply. His face only grew darker in crimson color.

“Mikey,” Gerard warned from behind his younger brother. Mikey shrugged half a shoulder at him, and winked.

“So, what did you say your name was again?” Brendon muttered from somewhat under the counter. Mikey looked down at him, cheek sitting in one hand like a daydreaming teenage girl.

“Michael,” he purred, “but you can call me Mikey.”

“Well, of course I remember that…” Gerard made a mental note to hit his brother upside the head later, when they were alone. The poor kid was a beet by now. “I meant your last name.”

“Oh,” Mikey said softly. “Ah, it’s Way.”

At this, Brendon shot up directly, almost spilling the two coffees in the process. He set them down in front of Mikey carefully, and to the blonde boy, said, “Wait. Way? Like Elena's grandkids, the one who owns the haunted house down in the Grove?”

“Haunted?” Gerard said, surprised, but Brendon ignored him, continuing to ramble.

“Well, I mean. Pete knows way more about it than I do, but yeah. I guess like, a hundred-year-old ghost haunts that place, or something.”

“Great,” Gerard commented. Again, he was ignored. Mikey’s eyes grew wide with fake interest, and he leaned over the counter more.

“Do you think you could tell me more about this ghost?” Gerard almost threw up at the tone of his brother’s voice. At the least his eyes rolled all the way back into his head. He needed to sit down if he was gonna deal with anymore of this. 

The artist looked over to the Brendon kid, the one who looked like he had just creamed his pants. Gerard sighed; Mikey was a fucking jerk. 

“Well, I really don’t know…”

“Are you sure?” Mikey teased. “Do you think you could get your friend to tell you more, and then come back and tell me?” Brendon nodded with speed so lighting-fast that Gerard practically missed it; and he hadn’t blinked. “Okay, well you go talk to him, then you come back and I’ll be waiting, okay?” Brendon lightning-nodded again.

Mikey winked after him and grabbed the two cups of coffee, and sat down at a table. Gerard quickly followed. 

“You’re an absolute ass,” he let out, once he’d downed about half of his coffee. Mikey shrugged.

“Look, we’re getting dirt on our house. That’s pretty cool.” And he cracked his knuckles like it was so easy, like he made fourteen-year-old boys cream their pants and spill out their hearts every day.

“You’re pretty fucking gross.”

“You sound stuffed up, still.” Mikey contemplated his brother for a moment, before sighing and saying, “Yeah, I know. I’m pretty fucking gross. But it’s not like there’s anything else to do out here in piss-hole bum-fuck nowhere.”

“So you have to take advantage of a prepubescent boy? Gross, Mikes. Gross.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” But the young counter worker was already scampering back to the table, and Mikey immediately slid over, letting him room to sit down. Gerard wouldn’t put it past his brother to end up patting his lap either.

“Lord, help us all…” Gerard muttered to himself, as Mikey held his arms out to the younger boy. He wrapped them around Brendon’s neck and smiled, teasingly. The artist was surprised the youngest hadn’t passed out already.

“So, what did your friend say about my house, huh?” Mikey hummed. Brendon stuttered out a few inhuman noises, and Mikey smirked slightly; and ran a hand up the boy’s arm, and said, “It’s okay, don’t be nervous.”

Gerard took it upon himself to write on the napkin next to him, “You are actually going to Hell and watch me send you there,” passing it to his brother. The blonde boy read it and shrugged again.

“Well, Pete says that a hundred years ago, about exactly… there was a boy. I guess he was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome… His name was Frank.”

At this, Gerard’s head snapped up. He could deal with his brother being a pervert on an innocent bystander to hear this.

“Yeah?” Mikey said, feigning interest. He let his hand fall from the boy’s arm to his chest, where he dragged it down teasingly. “Any more to this story?”

Okay, maybe Gerard could use super-hearing to listen to this story, but not actually look. 

“Well, he lived in your house, right? And back then, people were pretty hard about anything that wasn’t straight out of the Catholic Book of Life, I guess…” Mikey nodded, and he scooted Brendon forward so that the younger boy was sitting in his lap. Gerard gagged.

“Yeah, I heard people were pretty hard-assed about in the 1800s,” the blonde boy crooned. Brendon blushed; Gerard was seconds away from jabbing a fork through his eye.

“Well this boy was strange, right?” Gerard made a mental tick in his head. “And promiscuous.” Another mental tick. “And he had a boyfriend, cute little slut one, that’s what Pete says.” Yet another mental tick. “Well, boys weren’t supposed to like boys back then… I guess Frank had done enough bad that when the pastor finally caught them out grinding on each other by the church… Well, he was convinced that Frank was possessed.

“The kid used to be all cute, sweet little ladies’ man when he was younger; grew up in good studies, he was gonna be a doctor one day, that’s what Pete says. But one day, he just changed– that’s why Harmse was convinced he was the Devil’s son.”

“All of this is very interesting, sweetie, but can we get to the climax of this story, already?” Gerard really did gag that time. If he had to hear his brother say ‘climax’ once more, he would shoot himself.

“Sorry.” Brendon blushed again, and Mikey rubbed his hand up his chest and said, “It’s okay, keep going.”

“Well, long story short… sorry… He was hung to death in the attic. I guess his spirit has been trapped there ever since?”

“Oh, wow,” Mikey said.

Gerard felt like throwing up- but now, for entirely different reasons. He swallowed, and squeezed his eyes shut. It had to be just a coincidence. “What was his last name?”

“Huh?” Brendon asked, snapped out of the haze of Mikey’s hands running over the top half of him. “What, sorry?”

“His last name, does your friend know? What his last name was?”

“Oh.” Brendon appeared to be thinking for a moment, before he said, “Oh. It was Iero.”

“Iero?” Gerard repeated to himself; and suddenly, he was having flashbacks of Frank. Frank in the attic, always there one second and gone the next; Frank talking about his boyfriend, Frank talking about how everything had ‘been a while’…

_“God, I love that laugh,” he grinned. “Say it again though. No, say my last name.”_

_“I don’t know your last name,” the noirette pointed out._

_“Iero.”_

“Mikey, we have to go.” Gerard had one hand to his mouth, as if he were going to be physically sick without it there as barrier. Mikey looked up, startled.  
“Oh, yeah. Okay, um…” and he turned back to Brendon, and ran his hand up the kid’s chest once more, to his cheek, which he cupped, and then said, “Thanks for all that.” And he leaned in, and brushed their noses together, and pressed their lips together…  
“Mikey, now!” The blonde boy snapped out of his haze, and looked down, to where Brendon was still sitting stilled in his lap, their lips pressed together. He pulled away quickly, and said to a very startled Brendon, “Sorry, duty calls!”, ushering the boy out of the seat, mortified expression on his face.

 

“Oh my God,” Mikey muttered, as he and Gerard rushed their way out of the coffee shop. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God… I kissed a boy, I kissed a boy, oh my God…”

“Well, to be fair, where did you think that was going?” The artist sighed. Mikey whimpered.

“I fucked, Gerard, okay? Fuck, fuck, oh my God I kissed a boy, oh my God I kissed a boy, oh my God…”

“Look, that’s the least of our problems right now, kid,” Gerard said, as he was starting up the car. Mikey looked at him, stupefied. 

“Least of our problems–!”

“Your boy love can be dealt with later, okay?” Mikey narrowed his eyes at the older boy.

“Excuse me, you did not just go through what I did! God, he was sitting in my lap all hot and bothered and hot, and I kissed him, oh I kissed him,” the boy moaned loudly, trailing off, “Oh, boys…”

“Mikey, Jesus Christ–”

“Gerard, I think I like boys.”

“Mikey–!”

“Oh, God, oh my God, I kissed a boy, I like boys, Jesus…”

“Literally, you shit!” And Gerard slammed on the brakes, and turned to his brother, who had been once again snapped out of his haze of whatever-Gerard-didn’t-really-care-to-know. “Look, I’m glad your discovering yourself in my fucking car, cool for you, gross a bit, but we have bigger problems.” Stress on the word ‘bigger’. “Look…” he said, and sighed. 

“I think we have a ghost.”


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I was kinda stuck with where the doodle to go with it.. but I hope you enjoy it.  
> xokilljoy

August 22nd, 1997

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Frank looked up from his ever-held gaze at the windowsill to the artist, calm hazel sad as he said, simply, “There was always something more important on your hands.”

“Well, to be fair, I think this is kind of important–” but the younger boy ignored him, and continued.

“I didn’t think I would want to be around this long, anyway. I didn’t plan to fall in love with you.”

Gerard stopped stepping forward, and he looked peculiarly at the younger boy by the window. “What?”

“To be fair, it doesn’t matter. My name is Frank Anthony Iero and I am one hundred years dead. Are you scared yet?”

“No,” the artist said softly. “I’m not scared of you.”

Frank stood up from the windowsill and walked up to the older boy, and looked directly into his eyes when he said, “You should be.”

“Are you coming on to me?” The artist smirked. “You’re dead.”

At this Frank flinched, if only ever slightly. “How much do you know?”

“You were hung, right?”

Frank sighed; he pulled Gerard closer to the windowsill, set himself down, and said, “Sit down, artist boy. I want to tell you a story.

“My name is Frank Anthony Iero; I lived to nineteen years of age… and tomorrow is the 100th anniversary of my death.

“Once upon a time, I lived in this house with my momma Iero. We moved out here when I was very young, after my dad left. I had your room, you know? It still looks the same even now.” Frank smiled, and continued.

“Like any normal boy, I went to school, and I had friends; and every Sunday morning I would go to church with my mother. I was the poster child of perfect and everyone was jealous– How did she get me to be so good? How did she get me to behave, like the perfect little angel?

“Well one day, I think I was… twelve years old, I started to see the other little boys my age in a new light. You know, the kind of light that the Devil only ever sees? I didn’t want a cute little girl on my arm, and the pastor didn’t like that.

“So, I shut myself away in the attic. I stopped going to confession, I stopped doing good in school. I stopped praying to God because I knew deep down that I didn’t want salvation for something that I couldn’t change. This was just me, and I’d rather hide and be me than lie and let everyone in.”

Frank stopped then, and looked up to Gerard. “You follow?”

“Yeah, I– I follow.”

“Well. Now, back then, if you weren’t a social butterfly, there was something wrong with you. I was no longer a charismatic little kid; I locked myself away on purpose. The only one I ever came out to see was Gabe–” Frank stopped then, and bit his lip. “Sorry,” he said, and looked down. “I’ve never told anyone this before…”

“Yeah, it’s okay.” Gerard said softly, and put his hand on top of Frank’s. The younger boy smiled lightly, and continued.

“Now, I’ve told you everything I can even remember about Gabe, except that… Well, one day we were out by the church, and it was late; and for the life of me, I can’t remember why I didn’t care if they caught us.

“Gabe was only seventeen at the time, and I was nineteen. A-and when they found us–” Frank stopped again, and looked down, blinking fast. “He didn’t– he didn’t tell them that I wasn’t hurting him. He didn’t fight for me… the last I saw of him was a sorry glance before he ran.”

Frank stopped again, and cleared his throat; and when he spoke, his voice was heavy and thick with accent. “Frank Anthony Iero,” he said, aloud, “You are hereby sentenced to death by hanging for unlawful sexual assault to a minor; among other crimes, listed as so: attempted arson to holy ground, battery to an official of the law, and present possession of an unholy spirit of the devil.”

“What?” Gerard said incredulously. “Present possession of– what?”

Frank held out his wrist. “Do you see the markings on my arms? Needlework I did myself. Homosexuality, complete 180 of personality; lack of communication, insomnia… oh, why else did they think? Maybe because they were crazy, sick, religious fucks.

“I ran so fast; but I didn’t know where to hide. I thought, dear Lord, if I could only find somewhere to hide– but they wanted me trapped, because they thought–”

“You were hung in your attic,” Gerard said. Frank squeezed his hand.

“That’s where they found me. I think the noose might still be up here, somewhere…. in any case, this still is.” And he pulled the collar of his shirt down, revealing a ribbon of bruised, scarred flesh, indented patches around his neck. “Isn’t it pretty? And all because little old Frankie Iero liked boys.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” Gerard said sadly. Frank laughed, humorlessly.

“You are entirely right, I did not. Now, I’m not done with my story, so hush up for a little bit longer.

“Now, Gabe committed suicide on September 1st, 1897; out by where they buried me, out–” and Frank waved his hand in the direction of the window. “Now he’s not trapped anywhere, like I am. He got to leave, but I got to watch as he took his own life because of what, guilt? I get to look out that window every day and remember how it looked when the traitor boy I loved oh, so much took the thing I’d give everything to have back. How could you take your own life, over anything? Why would you ever want this?”

Frank bit his lip again, and he pulled his hand out from under Gerard’s, holding his wrist up as he had done with the other. “Do you see what it says, around here?”

Gerard took Frank’s wrist and turned it over, and read aloud, “I wish I were a ghost.”

“Well now I am, and I don’t wish I were a ghost anymore.

“So I died in this house and I watched as days turned to months turned to decades, and nothing ever happened and no one ever stopped to say a hi. But one day, finally, someone moved in; and they stripped the walls and built new rooms, but God forbid they touched the attic because, “Wasn’t that one boy hung up there, that one time?” Yeah.

“But it was a sweet old lady, you know? I’ve only ever seen her up here once; and I only ever bothered to leave the attic and hear her play piano a time or two. She used to teach a little boy, sometimes; his name, oh… what was it, Gerard?

Gerard smiled softly. “You knew me, when I was little?”

“Well, I saw you. You never even knew I was there. But one day, this boy Gerard? He comes up into my attic, all klutz and chub and smiling face and he sees me. He sees me and I see him and for the first time in one hundred years, I don’t feel so alone anymore.”

Frank’s smile faded then, immediately, as he said, “I fell in love with him and for two seconds, maybe, I was happy. But everyone leaves, eventually; so why would you be different?”

Gerard knew that anything he could say to that wouldn’t come close to comfort. So he brought Frank up into his arms, and kissed his jaw and held him tight; and he didn’t say anything at all.

 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Gerard turned to the younger boy, smiling softly; and he squeezed his hand. “Yeah, hey. If you’re gonna be around here for a while, you might as well meet the family.”

“I feel special,” the boy said. “I never got to meet Gabe’s family.”

“Well, I don’t know about my grandma– hold on, let me get down–” and the artist let go of Frank’s hand to descend the attic stairs. “Alright,” he muttered about halfway down, and skipped the last two (albeit accidentally). “What were you saying?”

Frank appeared next to him. “I wasn’t, you were.”

“How the Hell did you–”

“I’m a ghost, remember? I don’t have to climb down stairs.”

Gerard sighed. “Oh, yeah. Sorry, that might take a bit of getting used to– which was what I was saying. I don’t know how well my Nonna will take to having an ethereal being in our home… we’ll worry about that later. Right now, you’re meeting Mikey.”

“Aw, that’s nice.” Frank followed the older boy out of the spare room and into the hallway. “So, where is he?”

“Where is who?” Mikey popped his head out of his room. “Who are you?”

Gerard ran a hand through his hair. “Hey, Mikes… uh, this is Frank.”

Mikey blinked. “No shit?” And he stepped forward, and ran one hand down Frank’s chest.

“It won’t go through,” Frank said, amusedly. Mikey pouted.

“No?” And he looked up and met Frank’s eyes. “Damn, you’re attractive.”

“Mikey!”

“Sorry,” the blonde boy said, taking a step back and raising his hands in defeat. “Didn’t know he was off-limits.”

“Shut up and go kiss the coffee counter boy some more,” the artist huffed, and shoved at his brother’s arm. Mikey laughed and held out his hand to Frank.

“Sorry, hey. I’m Mikey.”

Frank looked down at the younger boy’s hand, curiously, before lightly tapping it with his own.

“No handshakes? Aren’t you from the 19th century?” Gerard assumed that if ghosts could blush, Frank was, definitely.

“I’m sorry,” he said nervously. “Just– that– oh, whatever. I’m done trying to be hip and cool. Let me just go drown myself in a wash basin.”

“What’s a wash basin?” The blonde asked. Gerard sighed and ran a hand through his hair, and Frank muttered into his hands, “Never mind.”

“Well anyway,” the artist said, straying away, “I wanted you to meet him cos’, you know… he’s gonna be around for a while…” Frank glared at him and he trailed off. “Yeah. He’s… hmm. Yeah.”

“I gathered that,” Mikey drawled. “Hey, though, aren’t you two like a collective unit, though? Gee told me he kissed you, while back…”

“Collective unit?” Frank asked, confused.

“Uh, yeah. Like, boyfriends, or whatever.”

“Um,” Gerard looked at Frank, cocking an eyebrow. “Are we boyfriends?”

“What constitutes boyfriends? Do you mean, are we in love or are you Gabe?”

Gerard frowned. “I’m not. Gabe, I mean. I’m not–”

“Well, then yes,” Frank said, turning back to the blonde boy. “We’re boyfriends.”

“So you really are off limits?”

“Mikey!”

“Sorry,” the youngest whined, dragging out the word. “Ugh, whatever, you guys are lame. I’m gonna go be not lame. Later, losers,” and he began walking down the hallway, before he was called back by a decidedly unamused older brother.

“Hug me, dork,” Gerard intoned, but he stepped forward and Mikey ran up to him, burying his face in tho older boy’s chest.

“I’m happy if you’re happy with yourself,” he mumbled. “He’s a cutie. And you,” he said, turning to face Frank once more, “you don’t hurt him. You don’t break his heart or I swear to God…”

“Mikes, I’m fine. Go be lame now.”

“Fine, fine, I’m leaving. It was nice meeting you, ghost boy.” And Mikey slipped into his room again.

“So, that was my brother,” the artist sighed.

“He’s cute– and in a totally not weird way, I mean– he reminds me of you, kinda. You really do have each others’ eyes. There’s secrets in his too.”

Gerard blinked. “Like what?”

“Well, if I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore.”

The artist rolled his eyes. “Ugh, whatever. Come on, I’m taking you to my bedroom.”

“Ooh, kinky.”

“Whatever, shut up.” Gerard turned around and fought the younger boy by the waist, and smiled. “Mikey was right, though. You better not break my heart. I know where you live.”

“I promise to not be your Bert if you promise to not be my Gabe.”

The artist smiled, softly, and pressed his face into Frank’s neck. “I promise.”


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.  
> I'll rewrite this one day, when I have motivation for it, and a better ending idea.

EPILOGUE

 

August 23, 1997

 

Panic. 

“…Can you hear me…?”

“…Gee? Gee! Please, oh, God please wake up–”

“Somebody help! Call 9-1-1, anybody!”

The dull thrum in the artist’s wrist slowed, slowed, slowed… stopped.

“This isn’t happening! This doesn’t happen– Why?”

Muttering, murmuring rumors.

“Two deaths in that house, now?”

“And the poor woman is sick…”

“She’s next. I always knew that house was cursed, I always knew it.”

Gerard looked down at the mess of himself, and his brother, and all the people on the streets, frantic about flailing over yet. Another. Death. In. This. House.

“I’m dead.”

The artist turned to face the younger boy beside him, who sighed; and pushed an auburn curl from his sad, hazel eyes. “Yeah. You are.”

“No one gets hit by a car in a town as small as this. No one gets hit so hard they fly into the fucking lawn–” The artist’s voice was raised with anger, his eyes wide and scared. He felt a warm presence on his forearm and turned, and said, “Frankie, I’m dead.”

“I know you are.”

The two boys could hear rushing, and somewhere off in the distance, sirens. Gerard watched Mikey in the middle of the road, a heightened mess of seventeen-year-old hysterics. “Can he see me?”

“He can see me,” the younger boy shrugged. Gerard blinked, hard, and called out, “Mikey!”

No response. The blonde boy in the middle of the street didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

“He can’t hear me.” The artist ran his hands over his face, and turned to Frank. “I’m fucking dead, I’m dead! That- that doesn’t happen to people like me, I’m– I–”

“Well hey, at least the dog survived,” the younger boy spoke humorlessly, eyeing the bichon frise with envy.

“That fucking dog- I’m never walking a dog again! Ever! Who the fuck gets hit walking a dog in the middle of town Bumfuck Nowhere, population absolutely no one but ghosts!”

Frank looked sadly up at the elder boy, and he said, “It’s 2:15 on a Sunday, August 23, 1997.”

“So?”

“One hundred years ago, August 23, 1897, I died. At 2:15. On a Sunday.”

“Oh.” The artist looked contemplative for a moment, before wailing, “I hate myself,” burying his face in the shorter boy’s chest. “I was supposed to have a fucking life, I was gonna get better, and go places.”

Frank muttered, “I know you were,” and ran a hand up the older boy’s back.

“What now?”

“Well,” the younger said, “we wait.”

“For what?”

“I have absolutely no fucking idea.”

 

FIN


End file.
